


Heroes of the Squared Circle

by Mithen



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Elseworlds, M/M, Non-Graphic Self-Harm, Occasional blood and violence, Sexual Tension, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 74
Words: 226,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've gone by many names:  Billionaire Brucie, Country Clark, the Kryptonian, the Dark Knight.  But no matter what their stage names are, one thing has always been true:  Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne are the world's finest wrestlers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Justice Intelligible

**Author's Note:**

> A DCU/professional wrestling fusion. [Click here for more notes!](http://mithen.livejournal.com/191406.html)

_What wrestling is above all meant to portray is a purely moral concept: that of justice. . . . . In the ring, and even in the depths of their voluntary ignominy, wrestlers remain gods because they are, for a few moments, the key which opens Nature, the pure gesture which separates Good from Evil, and unveils the form of a Justice which is at last intelligible.  
\--Roland Barthes, "The World of Wrestling"_

Clark Kent was eight years old when he fell in love for the first time.

The Topeka Memorial Hall's floor was sticky under his feet as made his way to his seat, goggling at the people setting up the ring. He had never seen so many people in one place, and the low roar of more than three thousand voices rose and fell around him like a swelling tide. Next to him, Pete Ross was nearly shivering with anticipation: it was his birthday, and ever since he found out the DCW (the letters, he would explain to anyone who would listen, stood for "Dynamic Championship Wrestling") was coming to Topeka that day he had begged his father to take him there. Somehow Mr. Ross got tickets nearly at ringside, and the ring loomed above them, much larger than it had ever looked on their televisions on Saturday mornings. The announcer's table was just to the right, and as they set up Clark recognized the son of the owner of the DCW in his trademark neon-purple suit, an incongruously bald young man with a quick, wide smile that he bestowed on fans and road crew alike.

The show began.

Clark had read Pete's wrestling magazines, had watched some matches on television, but nothing had prepared him for the visceral _thump_ when fireworks exploded around the stage, a shock wave of light and sound that electrified the crowd into a living entity.

When Solomon Grundy swaggered to the ring through the curls of smoke, Clark thought he could feel the arena shaking with his steps. He towered over the staring crowd, shaggy hair falling over a beetled brow, his lip curled in contempt. In the ring, he pushed the referee, grabbed the microphone and growled abuse about "hick towns in the middle of nowhere." Indignation choked Clark, a swelling wave of righteous anger; he glared at the monster and yearned for someone to make him eat his words.

As if he summoned them, dazzling spotlights glared and a figure in bold red and green ran into the ring, entering with a leap through the ropes: Mr. Terrific answered the challenge. Clark saw the "Fair Play" emblazoned on his shirt, and his heart leapt as Mr. Terrific dealt Solomon Grundy a mighty blow. But Grundy merely shook it off, his massive head lowering as he struck at Mr. Terrific in turn. The fight was on.

The battle raged for a long time, with many twists and turns and reversals. Mr. Terrific was knocked out with a clothesline and lay limp and helpless in the middle of the ring; EMTs hovered nearby with a stretcher prepared and Clark called out to Mr. Terrific to get up, to not give up. As if hearing Clark's small voice, the lone figure stirred himself to action, staggering to his feet to stand against the menacing giant. With a burst of energy he chopped his hand across the bulging chest, and Solomon Grundy reeled backwards in surprise. Like an enraged bull, he charged at Mr. Terrific--but his more nimble, quick-witted foe dodged out of the way and he crashed headlong into the turnbuckle, sprawling back into the middle of the ring, stunned.

Mr. Terrific climbed up onto the ropes and--as if buoyed upward by the frantic roar of the crowd--leapt out into the air. He seemed to hang forever, defying gravity, until he crashed down on the still form of Grundy, an irresistible blow. One hand on Grundy's shoulder, another hooked around his leg, and the referee counted the villain out. Mr. Terrific had triumphed over evil.

The crowd went mad with joy as the defeated Grundy staggered from the arena, and Clark heard himself cheering with them, his voice just one in the swelling chorus. He was more than half in love already.

The show was one of the DCW's best, everyone agreed on that later. Wildcat battled Eclipso, the Vengeance Demon, and Eclipso threw him into the announcer's table headfirst, leaving blood trickling down his face in a shocking scarlet stream that made Pete gasp and Clark want to cover his eyes, although he didn't. Black Canary's fishnets made Pete blush; her fireman's carry slam made Clark cheer.

It seemed the climax to a perfect evening when the Flying Graysons rappelled down from the rafters, soaring over the crowd, their sequin-spangled bodies lit by searching spotlights. Loiza and Magda Grayson and their son John landed in the ring simultaneously, just as their entrance music hit its high note. John--a handsome young man with a shock of unruly dark hair--grabbed the mic and introduced the newest member of the Flying Graysons--and his new bride. As if his words were an incantation, a fourth figure descended from above, an angel in white, landing with a pirouette in the ring. The crowd went wild as John kissed Mary in the ring, and when the members of the Injustice League ran to the ring to try and assault them the blushing bride got Per Degaton in a scorpion deathlock that made him scream for mercy.

And the main event was yet to come.

Clark was nearly exhausted by the time the final entrance music started, wrung out with excitement and vehemence, but when the first words of Green Lantern's theme rang out ( _...and I shall shed my light over dark evil..._ ) Clark was on his feet again, cheers rasping his rough throat.

The Green Lantern strode through pools of emerald light, his purple cape swirling around him, golden head held high. Vandal Savage waited for him in the ring, wearing a massive bearskin cloak over his leopard-print loincloth: the self-proclaimed "last of the Neanderthals," rumored to be a cannibal (a friend of Pete's cousin swore he bit a man's ear off in Kansas City). The bell rang, and the two men circled the ring warily, their gazes locked as they tried to get the measure of their foe. As if they both heard some secret signal, they lunged toward each other simultaneously, locking up in the middle of the ring, their brawny shoulders straining against each other.

Green Lantern got the upper hand early, shoving Savage into the corner and delivering a series of mighty blows to his face and chest. Clark craned his neck, struggling to see--surely no one could withstand such an assault. But when Vandal Savage shoved his foe away, Clark's heart fell to realize that there was a feral smile on his face; he seemed entirely untouched by the beating he had just taken. The tables turned, and as they battled around the ring Green Lantern endured an agonizing amount of punishment. He was piledriven headfirst into the ring, punched so hard he flew over the ropes and landed on the concrete floor beyond, thrown into the turnbuckle so hard that his entire body flopped and spasmed. Clark's hands were balled into fists as he stared at Green Lantern's contorted, suffering face, _willing_ him to find the strength to fight back.

As Vandal Savage stared in shock, Green Lantern rose to his knees and then staggered to his feet, indomitable and unbeaten. He brandished his hand with the mystical ring upon it and cried out "No evil shall escape my sight!" in a voice that cut through the screams of the crowd and directly into Clark's heart. Then he plunged back into the battle.

Clark knew then that good would triumph, that the mocking Neanderthal would be sent skulking back to his cave. His faith was complete and absolute, and when Vandal Savage managed to get Green Lantern in a facelock, Clark was sure that it wasn't over for the hero.

And then Vandal--his vast shoulders blocking the view of the hapless referee--deliberately and cooly gouged his thumb into Green Lantern's eye, grinning sadistically at the crowd as he did so.

The hero writhed in pain, throwing off his tormentor with a supreme effort and staggering to his feet once more. But he was half-blinded, unable to withstand the assault any longer, and soon Savage had him pinned in the center of the ring.

There was a heavy hand on Clark's shoulder, and he realized Mr. Ross was holding him back from throwing himself bodily into the ring to help the struggling Green Lantern. His heart pounding, he watched in helpless agony as Green Lantern finally passed out from the pain. The bell rang to end the match and Vandal Savage rose in all his cruel glory to place a contemptuous foot on his back, his head flung back in mocking laughter as the crowd howled at him. And just like that, the night was over.

"Green Lantern'll beat him next week at the big match in Gotham," Pete said, clapping a hand to his shoulder sympathetically. But tears of anger stung Clark's eyes as they trailed out into the crisp fall air--it wasn't _fair_! It wasn't _right!_ If only he could somehow step into that ring and make it right again, make sure that justice won...

In that moment, in that desperate need to see good triumph, Clark Kent knew what he wanted to do when he grew up.

He spent that winter practicing elbow drops and backflips into the YMCA pool with Pete, trying to outdo each other in height and rotation. When the pool wasn't available, they set up mattresses in the basement and jumped off the couch onto them. When summer rolled around, Pete wheedled his parents into buying a trampoline, and they suplexed each other for hours on end, tossing and throwing each other in infinite variations. More than the high jumping and crazy moves on his own, Clark liked practicing moves that took teamwork: the satisfaction of pulling off a move that needed them both to time everything precisely, the dizzying moment where Pete trusted him to catch him, or to throw him safely into another move. Of course they watched matches, and read magazines, and collected action figures. They practiced cutting promos with a microphone in hand, honing their showmanship to emote anger and exhilaration.

When puberty set in, Pete's enthusiasm waned as he discovered girls and basketball. Clark spent more and more time practicing alone, delivering knee strikes and leg drops to thin air. But he never lost sight of his dream, never ceased pursuing his vision:

To one day fight in the ring for Truth, Justice, and the American Way.


	2. Handshakes and Opening Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark graduates from wrestling school, gets a job offer, and meets his new co-workers.

_ “Hector was adamant about introducing me to every member of the roster from top to bottom. I shook the hand of every person in the locker room and to not do so would have been a cardinal wrestling sin. It’s a tradition that must be followed in every wrestling locker room at every level in every country.” --Chris Jericho _

Iron Munro's handshake and smile made Clark Kent's heart pound with excitement more than the little piece of paper he handed over. "Congratulations, Kent. You've graduated from Iron Munro's School of Wrestling, and with your talent it's only a matter of time until you get a job with the pros!" As they walked back toward the ring, Munro clapped him on the back. "I can't teach you any more about the holds and throws, you're almost as fast as Jay Garrick, and you've got the best mic skills I've seen in a generation, son. The only thing you still need work on is--"

"--I know, I know, the high-flying moves," Clark sighed.

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Munro said. "Moves off the ropes are hard to pull off, especially for a big guy like yourself. You have to have complete and total trust in your partner to catch you safely, or your heart will never be in it."

"But I _do_ trust them."

Munro shook his head. "You trust them up here--" he said, thumping Clark's head, "--but you don't trust them _here_." He punched at Clark's gut and Clark parried the blow, laughing. "No training on earth can give you that instinct, Kent. You just have to find the right partner to bring out the greatness in you. And it's there, son." He waved at the ring. "Now get in there and show off some of your moves to the new kids."

Clark jogged to the ring where John Henry Irons was waiting for him, and together they put on a good show for Munro's new class of students. Clark showed off a new move he was pretty proud of, a variation of the cross armbar he was thinking of calling the Steel Bar, and landed it perfectly. When Irons threw him with his Tiger Suplex, Clark let himself flop like a broken-backed rag doll, his mouth open in a perfect O of agony--one of his greatest strengths, according to Munro, was that he took a bump better than anyone else, and could make other peoples' moves look devastating. Irons hooked his leg and covered him, and Clark whispered "Lariat takedown and let's go home," before he broke the hold with a titanic effort. As he staggered to his feet, shaking his head like a wounded bull, he caught a glimpse of a man in the stands wearing a brown polyester suit and clutching an unlit cigar in his teeth: certainly not one of Munro's students. Press? Either way, best to put on a good show.

Irons was taunting him on the other side of the ring, and Clark lowered his head and charged at him. They met in the center of the ring, and Clark connected with Irons's outstretched arm as if it were a freight train, swinging his feet off the mat and crashing onto his back, arms outflung to achieve the most resonant _thump_ against the flexible boards. He closed his eyes, his mouth lolling open, and felt Irons put his arm across him, waited for the referee to count to three, then rolled over groggily, pushing himself to his hands and knees as the kids cheered him and booed the grinning, smug Irons lustily.

Clark sat on the mat, pretending to be crushed and humiliated, and took a long look around the gymnasium in which he'd learned so much about the art and craft of wrestling: how to take a fall, how to communicate with his partner, how to emote pain and suffering and triumph. Now it was time to find his feet in an actual ring. Munro seemed to have so much faith in him: could he actually make it to the top of the wrestling world, all the way to the DCW? Not that he'd have a chance to start there as a green rookie, but...

"Clark Kent?"

Clark looked over to see the man in the tobacco-brown suit standing outside the ring and smiling broadly up at him. "That's me," he said, standing up to hold out his hand.

"Good moves in there," said the man as they shook hands. "Need a kid who can take a bump in my promotion. It's an east coast circuit, small but growing. I think you'd fit in just fine."

Clark blinked at him. "Are you Maxwell Lord?"

The man looked surprised, then preened. "You've heard of me!"

"Of course I have." Lord's "Loser League" was gaining notoriety in pro wrestling circles--he gathered up young untried talent and wrestlers Luthor's DCW had cast off, then gave audiences brutally physical matches, raw and intense. He called his promotion "The Justice League International," a rather grandiose name for a fairly small organization--but his wrestlers somehow managed to live up to it.

"I think you've got potential, kid," Lord said. "I'd like to see you achieve it."

Clark frowned, pretending he was thinking about it, but the fact of the matter was that he needed a job right away. The Kent farm mortgage was steep, and he didn't want to leave his parents in the lurch. Besides, it was a chance to be seen--and the east coast had more opportunity than wrestling in the Midwest. 

"I think you've got yourself a new wrestler, Mr. Lord."

Lord's smile grew even wider, if such a thing were possible, and they shook on it.

**: : :**

"--And that's Tora and Bea," said Guy Gardner as two beautiful women with improbably dyed hair blew kisses at him. "They wrestle as Fire and Ice, a ladies' tag team." He strolled up to the two with Clark in tow. "Ladies, this is Clark Kent from Kansas, he'll be wrestling with us from now."

Tora and Bea cast him flirtatious glances that Clark knew better than to take too seriously. "Welcome, tall handsome stranger," Bea giggled.

"Who you wrestling tonight?" Guy asked the pair as they walked through the winding back corridors of the Blüdhaven Civic Center. 

"Oh, Keith's got us up against the Female Furies _again_ ," Tora pouted. "Keith's our head booker," she explained to Clark. "He's got this _thing_ about the Female Furies and wants us to lose in under five minutes. I hate when he sets us up as jobbers."

Guy shrugged. "I hear Barda's being set up for a big babyface turn. I'm betting he breaks up the Furies soon and gives Barda a solo push."

"Big Barda as a babyface?" Bea looked dubious. "I'll believe that when I hear the crowds cheer for her instead of boo."

"I think she can do it," Tora said. "Especially if they work in an angle that uses her relationship with you-know-who."

Bea elbowed her. "We're not supposed to talk about that," she stage-hissed, and they dissolved into giggles.

Guy gave Clark a look that said: _Women, am I right?_ "Well, I'm afraid this is as far as you can accompany us, dear divas," he said as they approached the door of the men's locker room.

Bea and Tora air-kissed Clark's cheeks. " _So_ nice to meet you! Looking forward to seeing your match tonight!" they cooed and strolled off.

Guy shook his head, swung open the door of the locker room--and ran into a man wearing nothing but a towel trying to escape another man who was snapping a wet towel at his backside.

"Michael!" Guy snarled. "Stop chasing Ted around, for chrissakes." He grabbed the towel away from Michael, who shook back a mop of bleached-blond hair and grinned unrepentantly. "Clark," he said with a sigh, "Allow me to introduce Booster Gold and Blue Beetle, our resident babyface goofballs."

Clark shook hands with Michael and--after some arrangement of his towel to keep it in place--Ted as well. "Good kids, but lazy as hell," Guy muttered to Clark as they took off.

The locker room was chaotic, with people talking or arguing in pairs or groups everywhere. There was a bizarre mix of sweatsuits and garish costumes: Captain Boomerang in his bright blue and white with trademark flowing scarf, Count Vertigo adjusting his heavy cloak. Guy made sure Clark met them all, shaking hands with each wrestler in turn and being introduced as "the new guy."

When they came to a man wearing leotard in bright red, yellow, and green, Guy said, "Clark, let me introduce you to--"

"--Oh," Clark said quickly, holding out his hand. "I know Scott Free, of course. Mr. Miracle! The Escape Artist! No hold can stop him!"

Scott Free grinned at Clark. "I hear I'm wrestling you tonight."

"I--you are? Me?" The thought took Clark's breath away.

"It's a dark match," Free said apologetically, but Clark shook his head.

"I don't care if it won't be on television," he said, "Having my debut with you is quite an honor!"

"Kent!" Maxwell Lord's voice boomed from behind them, and Clark turned to find his hand being firmly wrung. "I see you've met your opponent tonight! Here's the angle--see, Mr. Miracle's current storyline is that he's becoming overconfident, everything's coming too easily for him. So we need you to go out there and lose quick and clean, okay? I'm thinking no more than thirty seconds or so."

"A squash match?" Clark tried to hide his chagrin. What exactly had he expected his very first night? "Yes, sir."

Lord clapped him on the back. "That's what I like to hear. Now, about your gimmick."

"I was hoping to be Clark Kent, the Man of Steel," Clark explained eagerly. "You know, with strength beyond that of mortal men? I have this hold I like to call the Steel Bar, and--"

"--No, no, that will never work," said Lord, squinting at him dubiously. "We need something a little lighter." He snapped his fingers. "That's it! You're from Kansas, right?"

"Well, yes," Clark said, his heart sinking.

"I'll have costuming find you a pair of overalls and a straw hat, we'll call you...Country Clark, how's that? Hick babyface, sweet guy, not the brightest. Brilliant, huh?"

He turned away before Clark could answer, heading off to clap backs and shake hands with the other wrestlers. 

"Looks like you've got your gimmick." Clark turned to meet the sympathetic eyes of Scott Free. "Sorry, Kent. Lord pays the bills--"

"--Sometimes--" Guy muttered darkly beside him.

"--And so he gets to make the rules. But I'll tell you what," said Free. "I'll let you get in a move against me instead of just squashing you outright. Let you show what you can do a little bit."

"I'd appreciate that," Clark said gratefully.

"What's one of your preferred moves? Not the hold, something more aggressive."

"How about a spinning heel kick? I've got a pretty good one."

Free nodded thoughtfully. "Sure. We can lock up and you can force me to the mat, then as I get up, you hit me with the kick. Put me in the Steel Bar--" Clark felt a wash of gratitude that Free remembered the name of his move, "--and I can break out of it, hit you with a diving shoulder block, and we're done. Simple, clean, and fair. Got it?"

"Got it." It was a quick match and he was being used to get Free over, but there wasn't much else a new wrestler could expect, especially against one of the top babyfaces in the promotion.

Free stuck out his hand again. "I look forward to working with you tonight."

As they walked away, Guy said, "Free's a good guy. You can trust him not to backstab you--well, as much as you can trust _anyone_ ," he added with a sardonic grin. "Wish I could say the same about everyone on the roster. And speaking of which..."

He was steering Clark toward a group of people in which one member was speaking vociferously, his hands waving. Clark was surprised to recognize the dimpled, square chin and strong nose of the man who was known as Captain Marvel in the ring. But the wide, gleaming grin was gone, and his voice was sullen and resentful. 

"That moron Kord screwed up his move. I could have broken my neck!" he whined, sounding much younger than his in-ring persona's confident assertiveness. 

"He wouldn't have had to be improvising if you'd remembered the program," Guy said as they came closer.

"I could have his ass fired," Marvel snarled. "You don't hurt the star of the show."

"Last I heard, Mr. Miracle merchandise was selling better than yours," Guy said. "Kent, let me introduce you to Billy Batson, current holder of the championship belt."

"That's _William_ Batson," Captain Marvel said, glaring at Guy and buffing his knuckles on the huge golden belt around his waist before extending his hand to Clark for a bruising handshake. "And the champion is always the star of the show. Something you'll never be--remember that, Gardner."

"So much for the babyfaces being nice guys," muttered Clark as Marvel stomped away.

Guy made a scoffing noise. "Stick with the heels, buddy."

"And which one are you this week?" Count Vertigo asked him with a grin, leaning over. The vaguely European accent he used to threaten people in the ring was entirely lacking.

"I'm a bonafide heel, baby," said Guy, gripping his jacket collar and tossing his head back. "At least until someone hits me on the head again. That's my new gimmick," he said to Clark, "I have a complete personality change whenever I take a headshot. It's a helluva lot of fun, I have to say. And I guess that's everyone," he said, looking around. "Oh wait, jeez. I forgot Bruce." He sighed. "Come on, let's get this over with."

He steered Clark toward the back of the locker room, where a man in jeans and a t-shirt was sitting in the corner, reading. He looked up as they approached, neither smiling nor frowning, just watching them with icy blue eyes.

"Bruce Wayne, this is Clark Kent. New guy. Babyface, going by Country Clark as of tonight."

A dark eyebrow rose. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Bruce said, and turned back to his book without rising or extending his hand.

Guy rolled his eyes as they walked away. "Don't mind him, he's that way with everyone."

"What's his gimmick?"

Guy looked surprised. "You don't know him? He's one of our top heels. Billionaire Brucie."

Clark stopped dead. " _That's_ Billionaire Brucie?"

"Oh, you have heard of him?"

"Of course I have! It's just--I can't believe that's the same person!"

Guy snorted. "He only smiles in the ring, as far as I know." He shook his head. "Forget about him, we have to get to costuming and get you set up before your match."

Clark groaned. "Not the overalls."

"Don't forget the straw hat," Guy smirked. He clapped the disconsolate Clark on the back. "Gotta pay your dues--we all did."

And with that Clark had to be content.

**: : :**

Two hours later, "Country Clark" Kent was standing nervously backstage in the Gorilla Position where wrestlers waited for their cue to go on (named, of course, after the infamous wrestler Gorilla Grodd), dancing back and forth from foot to foot and trying not to listen too much to the rustling crowd. The overalls were slightly too big for him--he was deathly afraid they were going to fall down during the match--and the straw hat was itchy on his forehead.

Yet when the ring announcer called out: "Tonight, hailing from Smallville, Kansas: Country Clark Kent!" everything fell away in a surge of adrenaline.

There was no entrance music, no fireworks, no pop from the crowd, just him trotting down to the ring, smiling and waving at people. A few even smiled back and slapped his hand as he went by; apparently his enthusiasm was a little catching.

But not so catching that they didn't turn away from him entirely, breaking into a roar of applause as the announcer called out the name of Mr. Miracle.

Scott Free came down to the ring, beaming and waving, his garish costume and mask catching the spotlight as his theme music blared. He leapt onto the ropes and gestured to the audience, pulling them in, and they surged with joy at the sight of him. Clark took a moment to admire his artistry, the way he could hold the audience spellbound. 

Then Mr. Miracle turned to him and extended his hand.

If Country Clark were going to be a heel character, this would be the time for him to spurn the handshake and attack him, according to the pantomime-like traditions of wrestling. But Country Clark was going to be a face, so instead he stepped forward and shook Mr. Miracle's hand, to a smattering of applause. Scott Free smiled at him from under the full-face mask. "Let's give 'em a good show," he murmured.

The bell rang and Clark Kent's first match in the JLI began.

It lasted, as Lord had demanded, around 30 seconds, and they followed the basic script Free had laid out for Clark to the letter. The crowd didn't respond much to Mr. Miracle's win--after all, his current angle was that everything was _too_ easy for him--but as Clark lay on the mat with Free's arm across him, he heard Free whisper, "Good job."

Then Free was up and his valet, Oberon, was handing him his cloak as he strolled out of the auditorium. Clark looked puzzled and a little depressed as he ambled back up the ramp, past the cheering fans. That was going to be his character, he decided: someone bemused by his losses, a nice guy who just wanted to do his best.

He had no idea at the time that he would get so much practice at this kind of exit.

**: : :**

He stayed backstage the rest of the night, watching the matches on the screens and getting a feel for his fellow wrestlers. Fire and Ice made a great team--even losing to Big Barda he could see that they had real skill. Michael and Ted (now Booster Gold and Blue Beetle) cut a comedy promo that ended with Ted doing a pratfall into a table that was wincingly believable. The heel announcer, Glorious Godfrey, interviewed Mr. Miracle about his recent string of victories until his snide insults provoked Mr. Miracle into doing his patented Miraclesault off the ropes onto him, knocking him out.

The last match of the night was between Billionaire Brucie and Orion ("The New God!"), as they were starting a feud between the two of them. Clark blinked as Bruce Wayne emerged from the locker room in a truly astonishing black robe covered with sequins and trimmed with fluffy white feathers. He met Clark's eyes and nodded politely, still not smiling at all as he went to stand in the Gorilla Position. His face was closed off and severe, turned inward as the ring announcer's voice blared: "Hailing from Gotham City, Billionaire Brucie!"

And then the first notes of his entrance music struck and he became an entirely different person.

Before Clark's eyes, a glitteringly flawless smile bloomed across his face, the intense eyes going shallow and vapid. Suddenly he was exactly what his gimmick claimed to be--a stunningly handsome man without two thoughts to rub together. He strode onto the ramp, waving and beaming at everyone, seemingly unaware of the crowd's reaction to him. And the crowd's reaction--!

Clark had never heard such a response, a mighty roar of hatred and contempt from thousands of throats simultaneously. People were screaming and jabbing their thumbs down as Bruce went by, a few so incensed that Clark thought they might actually assault him. Billionaire Brucie went to kiss the back of one woman's hand, and she recoiled, throwing her drink at him. Brucie dodged it gracefully, smiling as if she had swooned into his arms, and swirled his magnificent robe around him as he went to the ring and climbed in.

He stood in the middle of the ring, his arms outstretched as if to soak up adulation, and the crowd rained jeers down on him. Picking up the mic, he began to cut a promo about how tacky Orion's clothing was, and how he could take some lessons from the epitome of style and grace that was Billionaire Brucie. Whenever the fervor of the crowd started to flag, he would gesture languidly with one hand and drawl, "Please hush now!" and the crowd would roar back to life as if he had commanded them to yell instead of the opposite.

He was completely in control of the crowd, playing them like a conductor would play the finest orchestra, and Clark found his jaw agape in astonishment. He had seen Billionaire Bruce's act on television, but in person his heel charisma was much more striking. And when Orion ran in to interrupt his preening and they locked up as the bell rang, Clark noticed something else.

Bruce Wayne was a master of in-ring psychology.

Every move he made, his posture and facial expressions, made part of an ongoing story. He had nothing but contempt for the lunkish Orion, nothing but love for his glorious self, and every moment in the ring was used to get that across. And all the while he was making _Orion_ look good--the audience might not have been able to tell, but Clark could see that the babyface was winded about ten minutes into the match, but Billionaire Brucie sold his punches and his body slams with such vigor that Orion looked dominant the whole way through.

At the very end, Billionaire Brucie dodged a punch from Orion and knocked him out of the ring and onto the floor. As Orion recovered himself, Brucie ostentatiously pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his trunks, snapped it so the crowd could see it, and slipped it into the referee's pocket with a wink. As the crowd screamed its rage, Orion hauled himself back into the ring just in time to meet a kick from Brucie. Brucie pinned him, the referee counted to three with unseemly haste, and the closing bell rang.

Orion was livid with rage, while Billionaire Brucie pranced around the ring, flexing and beaming. Eventually, a woman clad entirely in black leather and holding a whip brought him his sequinned robe, and he kissed her on the cheek and shrugged it on as the crowd howled. Coming up the ramp, he looked down his nose at everyone, his supercilious smile blindingly wide, until the moment where he walked around the corner and the smile fell from his face like a curtain, to be replaced by the familiar glower.

"Great match!" Clark blurted as he walked by, unable to restrain his enthusiasm, and Bruce looked at him with some surprise. 

"Thank you," he said, and walked by to the locker room.

His leather-clad valet grinned at Clark and swished her whip. "Charmer, isn't he?"

"Not the friendliest," Clark agreed with a grimace.

The woman frowned. "Don't think for an instant you're going to be able to suck up to him or anything. He doesn't like sycophants." She pondered for a moment. "Or anyone, for that matter." An impish grin changed her from dominatrix to coquette, and then she kissed him on the cheek. "You're cute, though," she said, and wandered off toward the women's locker rooms.

As he was packing up in the locker room, Booster Gold slapped him on the back. "Hey, new babyface, you wanna hit the town?" Booster grinned. "The night is young and the bus doesn't leave until seven tomorrow morning."

Clark hesitated. He was tired, but returning to a bare hotel room didn't hold much appeal at the moment. Besides, he had to start making some friends among the other wrestlers. "Sure thing," he nodded, and threw his straw hat into his duffel bag. It got a little crushed as he zipped it up, but no matter--soon he'd prove himself to Maxwell Lord and this whole "Country Clark" gimmick would come to a merciful end.

He'd be the Man of Steel soon enough.


	3. Kayfabe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark learns a valuable lesson about going out drinking with wrestlers, makes an enemy, and finds out more about Bruce Wayne's gimmick.

_ Their language hailed from turn-of-the-century carnivals, where house brawlers would take on challengers, also known as marks, from the crowd. When the best of them wrestled one another, they couldn’t afford to go at each other for real, lest they get hurt. So they rigged their matches, deciding who’d win beforehand. Since more than a few were already on the lam from the law, conning the public came naturally. They even developed a secret language that allowed them to guard their secret—a pig-Latin dialect called carny. Whenever an outsider was in their midst, they’d quiet each other by saying 'kayfabe.' In time, kayfabe became a metaphor for the wall of silence that wrestlers built around their business. --Shaun Assael, "Sex, Lies, and Headlocks" _

The bar hadn't been redecorated since the early 1970s, but the beer was cold and the selection on the jukebox was good, so Clark wasn't complaining. He was sitting at a table with Michael Jon Carter, Ted Kord, Ben Turner, Tom Tresser, and Orion Kirby--better known under their stage names as Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, Bronze Tiger, Nemesis, and Orion the New God. Several people had approached them already for autographs, which they had all signed with cheerful smiles.

Well, everyone but "Country Clark Kent," because apparently no one wanted his autograph yet.

Ted was launching into another story about some hilarious and slightly racy situation he had found himself in, with Michael enthusiastically embellishing, when the bar door swung open and a new group of people entered.

"Hey!" Clark waved at Guy Gardner with a smile and started to cross the bar to go talk to him, but a hand clamped down on his arm. He looked over at Orion with surprise. "What?"

"Those are heels, Kent," hissed Orion. "Babyfaces don't socialize with heels."

Guy, Werner, Bruce, and Selina paid no attention to the other wrestlers as they swept by them on their way to another corner of the bar.

"Geez, if there was another decent bar in this hellhole of a town, this wouldn't happen," sighed Michael. "Hey, I'll buy this next round, okay?" He stood up to go to the bar and place the order, and Clark leaned over to Ted.

"It's really so strict? We can't talk with the heels in public?"

"Are you kidding? We travel on separate buses, stay in separate hotels. It's kayfabe, man," said Ted. He gestured at the people in the bar around them. "They won't believe it's real unless we _make it_ real for them. That means all the time when we're in public, no breaks. Max takes that shit seriously, don't mess with it."

Clark glanced over to where the heels were laughing and drinking beer together. Guy was talking animatedly with--well, Clark would have said Bruce, but it was most definitely Billionaire Brucie, all wide white smile and glittering eyes. In character even off the clock, thought Clark, unsure whether to be impressed or appalled.

"Here you go, man," said Michael, handing him a fresh mug of beer. "My treat."

"Hey, thanks," said Clark with a grin. Traveling with these guys wouldn't be so bad either, though. They seemed like a--

" _What_ is this _swill_ you are consuming?" 

Clark froze with his mug almost to his lips at the sound of Billionaire Brucie's affected voice at his elbow. Everyone in the bar stopped talking as Bruce plucked the mug from Clark's hand and took an exaggerated sniff from it, his face wrinkling in disgust. 

"Domestic, of course. The peons in this town have no concept of good beer!" he announced, provoking rumbles of anger around the bar. 

Then, with no warning at all, Bruce Wayne swiveled and threw the contents of the mug into Michael Carter's face.

"I recommend you try some of the Czech beer," he said conversationally to Clark as Michael sputtered and dripped. "They have a truly fine Svijanský Máz, one of the better lagers." 

Then he strolled back to the heel table, leaving Clark gaping after him in disbelief.

Michael sputtered turning a dull red as the beer dripped off his face. "I'll--That bastard--I swear I'll--" 

"Let it go, Booster," Ted muttered, putting a hand on his arm, and Michael subsided, scrubbing at his hair with a napkin.

"Isn't that taking the heel thing a little too far?" Clark asked in a low voice.

"He just likes to mess with us," Michael snarled. "Just because he's got a stick up his ass--" His voice had risen again, but Ted leaned over and said something in his ear, and he quieted down once more. 

People were giggling, and Michael was clearly humiliated underneath the bluster, Clark noted with sympathy. He glared over at Bruce, but Bruce was ignoring them once more, laughing and flirting with Selina.

"I'll treat this time," Clark said, clasping Michael on the shoulder as he rose to get another round of beer, and Michael looked at him gratefully. 

Eventually Clark noticed Bruce excusing himself to use the restroom. Casually, he excused himself as well.

He came into the bathroom as Bruce was washing his hands. Bruce looked up as he came in, but barely had time to look surprised before Clark grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. "What the hell's your problem?" snarled Clark. 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You're faster than you look," he said, as calmly as if he weren't backed against a wall with an angry wrestler yelling at him.

"I said, what the _hell's_ your _problem_?" Clark repeated, shaking him slightly. "What did Michael do to you to deserve that?"

"Not a thing," Bruce said.

"Not a--so you thought it would just be a lark to mortify him in front of a bar full of people? You've got some nerve! I mean, really, you're a--"

"Flunitrazepam," Bruce said.

Clark blinked. "What?"

"Flunitrazepam," Bruce repeated. "It's a strong muscle relaxant." He met Clark's eyes squarely. "Michael spiked your beer with it."

"He _what?_ That's absurd!"

A faint look of exasperation crossed Bruce's impassive face. "It's a rib, Kent. A practical joke. They do it to all the new wrestlers. Once you'd passed out in your hotel room, they'd have shaved your eyebrows. Or your whole head, if they felt brave."

Clark stared. "Are you serious?"

"I'm always serious," Bruce Wayne said with an absolutely straight face. He shrugged Clark's hands away from his collar and started to move to the door. His hand on the knob, he turned back around. "Kent. I suggest you get better at telling babyfaces and heels apart. And keep a closer eye on your drinks."

And then he was gone.

Clark washed his hands slowly, looking at himself in the mirror and imagining himself without eyebrows--or worse, without hair. When he got back to the table, Michael slapped him on the back. "Got you another beer, buddy," he said.

Clark looked down at the mug. "Thanks, but I think I'll just have a soda," he said.

Michael and Ted's furtive shared glance told him all he needed to know.

He put aside his anger--it was clearly nothing personal, just a rite of passage new wrestlers had to go through--and tried to get back into the laughing conversation, but his heart was no longer in it. He found himself watching Billionaire Brucie out of the corner of one eye as he laughed his high, braying laugh, and his anger was slowly replaced by a very different emotion: curiosity.

Why had Bruce intervened on his behalf?

**: : :**

The back corridors of the Gotham City Auditorium were buzzing as Clark showed up the next night to prepare for the evening's show. He heard Billy Batson's name murmured, saw eyes rolling. And when he walked into the locker room, he could hear why.

"I refuse!" Batson's whine cut through the locker-room chatter. "That bastard Kord knocked my back out of whack, I know it, and I won't wrestle a long match injured!"

"Now, Billy--" Max Lord's voice was placating.

"If Vertigo refuses to lose fast and clean, find me another opponent!"

"But you're billed as fighting--"

"I. Don't. Give. A. _Damn_ how I'm billed," Captain Marvel snarled. He jabbed at Lord's chest with a thick finger. "I haven't seen a paycheck from you for two months, there's no way I'm risking my body for no pay!"

Lord's face was turning red. Most of the locker room was trying to act as though they weren't listening. In a corner, Bruce Wayne was reading _The Big Sleep_ and seemed oblivious to the altercation.

Marvel whirled, his white and gold cape flaring as he glared around the room. "Put me against him," he said, catching sight of Clark. He pointed at him. "You. Hayseed. You can manage to lose to me in thirty seconds, right?"

"But...we're both babyfaces," Clark stammered. "Shouldn't the champion be fighting heels?"

Marvel's eyes narrowed. "You're not a babyface," he said. "You're _nothing_. You think of an angle, it's not my job." He stomped off, people scattering before him.

Max Lord sighed. "Kent, you're up against Marvel tonight."

"But--I was supposed to be starting an angle with Doctor Light," Clark stammered.

"Look, when Batson's unhappy, we're _all_ unhappy," Lord said. "Now I just have to come up with some reason why you'd be fighting him in...two hours. Jeez." Lord's distress was palpable. 

"Well," said Clark, "You could announce that Country Clark isn't hired by the JLI as a regular yet, but you've decided that if I can defeat Captain Marvel I'll be given a full-time contract. That way he'll have a reason to defeat me fast. It'll be like tough love, I have to prove I'm worthy to be on the regular roster."

Lord was nodding, a smile slowly dawning on his face. "That's good! I like that! I'll go out before the match and start talking about the next pay-per-view, and you can run in and interrupt me to demand a contract. Then I'll make that stipulation." He gave Clark a narrow look. "You think your mic skills are up to cutting a promo like that?"

Clark tried not to show how excited the prospect made him. A chance to express himself on the mic! "I'm up to it, sir."

"Great, great! And tell Arthur, would you?"

He slapped Clark on the back and walked off without waiting for an answer.

"God damnit!" yelled Arthur Light when Clark told him about the change of plans. He stripped off his white gloves and hurled them on the ground. "That overgrown man-child and his temper tantrums will be the death of this promotion. I don't know why the hell Max decided to give him the belt, but now he keeps threatening to bail to the DCW and we have to keep him happy, because we can't have the champion ditch us." 

"We've got a lot of good wrestlers, we could get by without him."

Arthur winced. "Kent, we're kind of bleeding talent here. That bastard Luthor keeps hiring away our best wrestlers--the Darkseid schtick was just getting over with the crowd here, and Luthor went and offered him a million-dollar contract. We lost Floyd Lawton last month, too. I hear he's been making overtures to both John Jones _and_ Batson. I mean, Max can't compete with the kind of salary Luthor can offer!"

"Batson said something about not getting a paycheck from Lord for months," Clark said, and Arthur grimaced.

"Sometimes Max has a hard time making ends meet," he said. "It doesn't happen too often, though."

"But...I have to help my parents with the mortgage," Clark said.

Arthur clapped him on the back. "I'm sure he'll come through this month. Marvel and Miracle have been drawing the crowds. Look, Max gave a lot of us a chance when no one else would, so we try to cut him some slack. You just go out there and lose clean to Marvel, keep him happy. The money'll be there."

Clark was pulling on his hated coveralls, frowning, when Guy Gardner found him. "Kent! What are you doing back here? You have to come watch Bruce in action."

"I saw him in Blüdhaven last night," Clark said, in no mood to socialize, but Guy would have none of it.

"It's different. Tonight is _Gotham_. That's when Brucie's gimmick really hits the fan," Guy said as he dragged him out toward the staging room where a monitor was set up.

"What do you mean?"

Guy gave him an odd look. "You really don't know? He's not just any old rich vanity heel. He goes out there in front of the Gotham crowd and claims to be _the_ Bruce Wayne." When Clark still looked confused, Guy cuffed him lightly. "You really are from the sticks, aren't you? The richest couple in Gotham, Thomas and Martha Wayne, got themselves murdered like twenty years ago, leaving their little orphaned boy as the heir to their fortune. He grew up this reclusive legend, and then maybe seven years ago he just...disappeared."

"And Billionaire Brucie pretends to be Gotham's lost favorite son?" Clark whistled. "That takes balls."

"Brass ones," Guy grinned. "Oh, they hate him with a passion here, it's beautiful." He dropped into a chair. "Here we go, his promo is starting."

The cameras were panning the crowd, revealing various signs being held up by booing fans: "Fake!" "Pretender!" "Douche Wayne" and even "Thomas Wayne Would Hate You."

When Billionaire Bruce's entrance music hit, Clark could hear the roar of hatred not just from the monitor, but shaking the walls of the auditorium itself. "Holy smokes," he muttered.

Bruce Wayne strutted down the ramp in a robe even more fanciful than the one he'd worn in Albany, ablaze with spangles and awash in ruffles. He acknowledged the boos of the crowd with a regal wave, then climbed into the ring, holding his microphone as if it were a brandy snifter. 

"It's such a pleasure to be home again," he started when the boos died down slightly, re-igniting the crowd into a deafening rage. "In the auditorium named after my dear departed parents, no less!" He gestured toward the Jumbotron emblazoned with "Wayne Memorial Auditorium," and smiled as if he were soaking up adulation rather than bitter hatred. "I swear, it's enough to make a person positively sentimental." He wiped his dry eyes ostentatiously. "Later tonight, I will have the honor of defending my beloved city against a so-called alien menace, the 'Manhunter' from 'Mars,'" he announced, making air-quotes around the words. "All part of my solemn duty to keep Gotham free of frauds and phonies!" The crowd shrieked defiance at the hypocrisy: the Martian Manhunter, with his lost-alien gimmick, was one of the more popular babyfaces in the promotion. Bruce beamed out at them before making a sweeping bow and announcing, "You're welcome, Gotham!"

As he strolled back out to the beat of his music and the pummelling noise of the crowd, Clark looked at Guy. "If he's pretending to be Bruce Wayne, what's his real name?"

Guy shrugged. "It's the only name he ever gave. Maybe he just got lucky--it's not an uncommon name. Or maybe he just insists on going by it all the time. He takes his gimmick very seriously," he said with an eyeroll.

Fifteen minutes later, Clark was waiting in the Gorilla Position, watching the monitors as Max Lord talked about the upcoming pay-per-view in which Captain Marvel would be defending his championship against the brutish Kalibak. At just the right moment, he ran down the ramp--no music, no lights, no pop from the crowd--and jumped into the ring. "Mr. Lord, Mr. Lord!" he cried, taking off his straw hat and crushing it in his hands in his eagerness.

"What do _you_ want?" Lord said, eyeing him dubiously.

"Well, I was hoping you'd give me a regular contract, sir!"

Max seemed to consider it, turning his back on Clark to give an exaggerated "hidden" wink to the audience. "Tell you what, Clark, I'll give you that regular contract, if..."

Clark leaned forward eagerly.

"... _if_ you can beat our champion, Captain Marvel, in a match!"

Clark emoted dismay as Captain Marvel's music hit and the champion came down the ramp, smiling and shaking hands with everyone, letting small children touch his belt for luck. He got into the ring, took the mic, and explained to Clark that it was nothing personal, but he wasn't going to go easy on him. "You understand, right? It's for your own good."

Clark nodded eagerly and shook his hand, and the bell rang.

"Clothesline and then we'll go home," Batson muttered as they locked up, then tossed him up against the ropes. As Clark felt the ropes against his back and started to slingshot off them toward Marvel's cheesy grin, a flicker of rebellion went through him, and he acted on instinct. When Marvel raised his arm for Clark to smash into, Clark ducked, ran into the far ropes, and came back at Marvel. Marvel's eyes widened and he put out his fist, but Clark ducked again and slid through his legs.

The crowd laughed and cheered, and Clark stood up smiling--until his eye connected with Marvel's fist.

It was a real punch, too--stiff and with strength behind it. Clark heard a _crack_ of bone meeting bone, sparks swam behind his eyes, and his sag to the mat was only half-faked. He felt Marvel land on him, just hard enough to knock the wind out of him without seriously injuring him, and lay stunned as Marvel put him in a pin.

As the referee counted, Billy Batson put his mouth next to Clark's ear. "We're done when I say we're done and not a moment more, you little prick," he panted. "Now stay down and shut up."

His head spinning, Clark stayed down and shut up.

The bell rang and Captain Marvel's music started playing. He stood up, huge grin back in place, and helped Clark to his feet solicitously. "Better luck next time, chum," he said loud enough for the mic to catch, dusted him off, and gave him a toothy smile that was just a millimeter too wide to be sincere. The crowd cheered as he exited with waves and handshakes, leaving Clark to make his slow way out after him, feeling his eye swelling more with every moment.

His exit was halting enough that the ring announcer finally gave up and started announcing the next match between Billionaire Brucie and the Martian Manhunter. As he called out Bruce's name, the Gotham crowd went berserk, the noise smashing against Clark's throbbing head.

As he winced and glanced at the crowd, something caught his eye. One of the audience members wasn't booing. His face was set and pale, and he was staring fixedly at the spot from which Bruce was about to emerge.

Clark saw a glint of metal in his hand.

Things happened very quickly after that. Bruce Wayne emerged onto the ramp, giving the lagging Country Clark one annoyed glance before turning to wave and bow to the crowd. When his back was turned, the pale man lunged forward.

Clark met him halfway, catching his wrist and squeezing until the switchblade fell to the ramp with a tiny clatter that could barely be heard over the music and the roar of the crowd. Then the security guards were there, grabbing him and ushering him away so quickly that the cameras probably never even caught it.

Clark looked from the switchblade on the floor up into the wide eyes of Bruce Wayne, shocked for an instant out of his smile. 

For a moment, there on the ramp, surrounded by the howling and oblivious crowd, their eyes met.

Then Billionaire Brucie was turning away as if nothing had happened, the mask of his smile firmly back in place.

"Whoa, he got you pretty bad, huh?" Guy Gardner whistled as he looked at Clark's face backstage. "Impressive." He tossed an ice pack to Clark. "Get some ice on that shiner." 

"Thanks," Clark muttered.

"Nice move there, sliding under his legs like that. Hope it was worth it."

Clark remembered the fury in Billy Batson's whisper and wasn't sure if it had been.

The showers were full of wrestlers horsing around and insulting each other, but no one joked with Clark as he stood under the hot water and let it wash over him. Apparently Captain Marvel had quite literally marked him as _persona non grata_. A few people cast him sympathetic glances, but he ignored them.

When he finally emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, he blinked in surprise to see Bruce Wayne leaning against his locker, still in his wrestling trunks, his hair lank with sweat from his match. "I wanted to say thank you," Bruce said.

Clark shrugged and sat down on the bench. "You saved me last night. I figure maybe we're even."

"I saved your eyebrows. You might have saved my spleen," Bruce said. "I think we're more than even." He wasn't smiling, which Clark found almost a relief--he'd had enough fake smiles for one evening.

"You're welcome, then," said Clark.

Bruce's face creased in a frown. "Are you okay? You took a pretty bad hit there." He sat down next to Clark and looked deeply into his eyes, then tilted his chin up to the light. "What's your name?" he asked, moving Clark's head back and forth so the light shone in each of his eyes.

"Country Clark Kent, apparently."

"And where are you?"

Clark sighed. "I'm in a locker room in Gotham."

"And who am I?"

"Bruce Wayne, lost billionaire orphan."

Bruce didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth did something that looked amused. "It's a great gimmick, isn't it? I'm very proud of it."

"It's amazing."

"Keep it iced up until the swelling goes down," said Bruce, letting go of Clark's chin. "Once the swelling's not a problem, switch to hot compresses to relieve some of the bruising." He tilted his head. "Though a nice black eye looks great on camera, so you might want to keep it as long as possible. It gives you a distinctive look."

Clark couldn't help a weary chuckle. "You really think of everything in terms of angles and storyline, don't you?"

Bruce leaned in close and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Here's my secret, Kent: _everything is an angle._ " He patted Clark's bare shoulder as he stood up. "It's just a matter of figuring out how to use it."

Then he was walking to the showers, stripping off his trunks as he walked and tossing them into his open locker without looking, leaving Clark with a ghost-impression of warm fingers touching his face.


	4. Living the Gimmick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After months of bad treatment at Captain Marvel's hands, Clark gets an unexpected break. (Warning for non-graphic description of someone cutting themselves)

_ “People praised Robert De Niro for his dedication when he gained 150 pounds to become Jake La Motta for Raging Bull. How come the same compliment isn’t paid to pro wrestlers who bleed in the name of realism?” --Bret Hart  _

Clark Kent sat in the locker room and stared at his battered straw hat as if it were Yorick's skull. The last two months had seemed very long. Match after match with Captain Marvel, all of them lost in thirty seconds or less. Sporadic (and small) paychecks. And a gimmick as a comedic yokel.

On the plus side, he had started to hear some sympathetic cheering when he came out to the ring each night for his inevitable squashing. He'd been trying to sell himself as doggedly determined, but with little mic time, he wondered if Country Clark just came off as too stupid to know when to quit.

Maybe Clark Joseph Kent was too stupid to know when to quit.

Well, at least tonight he wouldn't get squashed, although that was because Captain Marvel was finally defending his title against Green Lantern, so Clark had the night off. He wasn't even sure why he'd come to the auditorium, he thought as he wandered out of the locker room. Though if he was forced to be honest with himself, he had to admit it was because he hoped to run into--

"Oh my God!" A shriek from one of the reception areas jerked his attention out of of his doldrums. Bea was staring at a television monitor, her face a mask of horror. Frowning, Clark joined the crowd in front of the set.

Captain Marvel was smiling out of the set, holding the JLI championship belt--and speaking into a microphone held by Jimmy Olsen, one of the commentators for Lex Luthor's DCW. "Well, Jimmy, I just felt it was time to work somewhere where the title has some _meaning,"_ he said, hoisting the heavy metal belt so everyone could see the "JLI" logo emblazoned across its golden surface. "I mean, it was long past time for me to graduate from the minor leagues and really shine," he said. "Time for me to move into the future with the DCW and leave the past where it belongs."

And then he took the JLI championship belt and tossed it into a metal garbage can.

The resounding _clang_ echoed around a room gone eerily silent. And then Maxwell Lord's voice split the air: " _That ungrateful little snot!_ " Lord pushed his way to the front of the horrified crowd, his eyes wild. "He told me he was planning on jumping ship, but he _promised_ me that he'd stay long enough to hand the title over." The camera was showing the trashcan toss in slow motion now, and Lord clutched at his hair. "My God, Luthor will never stop showing that footage. Our belt, our championship, it's worthless, we're doomed!" He slumped onto a bench, pounding his knees with his fists. "That bastard! We're ruined!"

"No, we're not," Clark heard himself say. Everyone turned to look at him, and so he had to keep talking. "We just need to come up with a good story for why he left. Guy--he was supposed to fight Green Lantern tonight, right?"

Guy Gardner looked up from patting Lord's back, his face stunned. "Yes, but--"

"--Well, you need to go out there and trash talk Marvel, say how he might not have had the courage of Achilles like he always said, but at least he had the wisdom of Solomon to know he could never beat you."

Guy's eyebrows went up. "Hey, that's a good line."

"Then you need to put on a great match with someone, take their minds off it until Max decides who gets the title. You need to fight someone who you can tie into the storyline, like..." Clark looked around the room.

"Like you, man," said Guy, pointing at Clark. "You're the person in the middle of an angle with Marvel right now, you're the best choice. Right?" He looked around the room to an array of shrugs and nods. "That'll work, you can run in and say that now that the two-timing backstabber is gone you finally have a chance to--"

"--No," said Clark, frowning. "That won't work."

"What?"

"Country Clark's a simple guy, an honest guy. He really believes that Marvel was doing all this to make him a better wrestler. I mean, within the story he actually _was_ , so it would mess up the story to have me trash him." Clark shook his head. "No, I have to run out and defend Marvel's honor."

Guy was staring at him, and he wasn't the only one. "Kent, you've finally got a chance to tell everyone what an ass Marvel was, and you're going to pass it up?"

"It wouldn't be in character!" Clark snapped, exasperated.

"He's right." Everyone--including Clark--stared at Bruce Wayne, leaning against the wall near the door. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Country Clark is too straightforward to catch any of the bullying undertones to what Marvel was doing. If he goes negative, it'll ruin his character in the long run." He nodded at Clark. "You're absolutely right."

Clark blinked at him. "Um, thank you."

Guy shrugged. "Hey, whatever it takes for you, I guess. But I think you're a lunatic."

"And coming from Guy, that means something," smirked Booster Gold. 

It was a sign of how rattled Guy was that he didn't even tell Booster to shut up. "Okay," he said instead, giving Clark a speculative look, "Let's you and me go over this match. We've got..." he glanced at the clock, "...about a half hour."

Maxwell Lord surged to his feet. "What are you all gawping at?" he barked at the JLI members. "Everyone start figuring out ways we can send Lex Luthor and his DCW yelping back to the pound with their tails between their legs! Move!"

Everyone scattered.

Guy Gardner grabbed Clark by the elbow and dragged him into a corner. "Not much prep time," he muttered. "I'll call the spots, you follow my lead. But we need something spectacular. Can you start off with a diving hurricanrana, a frog splash, something off the top ropes?" 

Clark tried to swallow a grimace at having his personal weakness brought up. "I've worked on a diving hurricanrana," he said. "I've never done it in performance--"

"--In case you haven't noticed, you haven't done _anything_ in performance," Guy pointed out. He stripped out of his t-shirt as he spoke, pulling his green bomber jacket on. "So there's no time like the present." He frowned. "Still, it might be time to get some color." He opened his locker and started rummaging through his gym bag.

"Color?"

Guy glanced up at him. "Yeah, we need to get peoples' attention, and some juice is the quickest way." He looked at Clark's blank expression and snorted. "That's right, you're from Munro's school. He hated getting color." As he spoke, he was wrapping bandages around his hand as though to protect an injured thumb. He extracted a tiny glinting bit of metal from his bag and tucked it into the bandages. "Well, you don't have to nick your pretty face, I'll do it."

"Nick?" Clark grimaced. "You're not going to--"

"--What, you think every time we bleed it's legit?" Guy snorted. "I mean, I'm not blading in every match, no way, but it makes an impression you can't beat. Sometimes you just gotta help it along a bit." He flexed his hand and gave Clark a lopsided grin. "I'll wait until late in the match, once I work up a sweat. Looks more dramatic that way." He rolled his eyes as Clark stared at him. "Don't be dramatic. Trust me, this does less damage than a botched dive into a table, and we risk that all the time." He stood up and punched Clark lightly on the shoulder. "Stop being squeamish and get changed up. Just start off with the diving hurricanrana and follow my lead after that, we'll be golden." 

"I won't let you down," Clark said, and hoped he sounded confident.

"I got faith in you," Guy said. "I can tell, you got what it takes."

As he walked away, Clark pulled out his battered straw hat and wondered what exactly "what it took" looked like.

**: : :**

"Don't you _dare_ say stuff like that about my mentor!" Country Clark yelled as he charged down the ramp to interrupt Green Lantern's tirade. 

Green Lantern sneered at him as he rolled into the ring and came up with his fists clenched. "Captain Marvel was a cowardly sack of crap!"

"Captain Marvel was a hero--something a blowhard like you'd _never_ understand." Clark bounced up and down, waving his fists. "I'm gonna wipe that smug smirk right off your face, Lantern."

"Oh, I'd like to see you try, you brown-nosing little bumpkin."

"I ain't no pumpkin!" Clark ad-libbed, and had the satisfaction of seeing Guy's mouth twitch slightly. A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd, the first reaction Clark had heard from them. "You take that back!" 

"Well, I think you're out of your gourd," Green Lantern shot back, and the crowd snickered again.

As if goaded beyond endurance, Clark jumped at Green Lantern. The bell rang and the match was on.

They did a couple of simple moves, and then Guy whispered "Hurricanrana" as they passed by each other. Dodging a punch, Clark scrambled to the edge of the ring and up onto the turnbuckle. Turning, he saw Guy glaring and growling at him--no time to hesitate--and he jumped out to scissor his legs around Guy's head and force him down into a somersault and a pin.

Or that's how it would have gone, except Clark miscalculated the distance and slammed into Green Lantern's chest instead.

He crashed onto the mat headfirst as Guy tried to turn the botched move into something that looked good, and the impact knocked the breath out of him for a moment. Guy crumpled next to him, feigning injury, and Clark heard him whisper "No problem. Take a moment, catch your breath." Then Green Lantern lunged forward to put him in a leglock, seeming to tie his legs in knots. He could hear Guy yelling dramatic insults and he grimaced in pain for the audience as his lungs slowly relaxed and let the breath back in. When he felt able to stand up again he reached back and clawed at Green Lantern's arms, breaking the hold. The match was on once more.

It went for twenty minutes, and aside from the missed hurricanrana there were no other errors. Guy called all the spots and Clark carried out what was whispered to him with as much flair and melodrama as he could, a man defending his hero from the vile slander of a madman. Considering it was his first match to last for more than a minute, he was relieved to find he wasn't winded even at the fifteen-minute mark, although they were both soaked with sweat. In fact, he was just starting to enjoy the match--Guy was a solid worker and was making him look good even as he was clearly "defeating" poor hapless Country Clark yet again.

Clark jumped forward and delivered a flying forearm smash, knocking Green Lantern into the turnbuckle again. Green Lantern clutched at his head, bending over, and Clark intuitively swiveled to gesture at the crowd, an appeal for support and applause that dragged attention away from the tiny motion Guy made as he swiped at his "injured" face.

When Clark turned back to Green Lantern, blood was trickling down his face, mixing and spreading with the runnels of sweat to create a truly horrific effect. Guy was smiling through the veil of scarlet: a dangerous, inhuman smile devoid of sanity, and Clark knew the tide of the match had turned for good as the crowd howled in anticipation.

Clark sold Green Lantern's "berserker frenzy" as well as he could, wide-eyed and appalled at the devastating offense unleashed on him. "I'll reverse your kick, and let's go home, buddy," muttered Guy as they locked up one last time, and Clark staggered away to deliver--in seeming desperation--a wild spinning heel kick. Green Lantern grabbed his leg out of the air and reversed his momentum, slamming him into the mat in apparent agony. Clark flopped and gasped for air until Green Lantern pinned him, then went limp as if unconscious.

"Great match," Guy whispered in his ear as the referee counted nearby. Clark realized with dim surprise that his voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. "Good work." 

The bell rang and the match was over, but Clark could barely manage to keep his slumped posture and look of defeat intact as he slunk from the ring yet again. Elation kept stretching his mouth: he'd done it. He'd delivered a full professional match. 

A hand reached out from the crowd to slap his shoulder as he walked up the ramp, and Clark almost flinched before he realized it was a fan, smiling and reaching over the barricade to console him. "Maybe next time!" yelled the guy. "Don't give up!"

And now Clark did let himself smile, a smile full of hope and determination. "I won't!" he yelled back, and headed up the ramp back to the locker room.

His good mood dissipated as he went backstage once more; Batson's betrayal and sullying of the championship belt were not to be overcome with one good match. Guy shot him a grin and a thumbs-up from the corner where he was slapping a bandage on his forehead, and a few people congratulated him, but most were still absorbed with gossip and agonized speculation. Clark showered, enjoying the feel of hot water pounding his tired muscles, and changed into his Smallville High sweatshirt and jeans.

"Hey, Kent!" called the wiry little assistant for Max Lord, banging into the locker room. "Mr. Lord wants to see you in his office right away!"

"Sure thing, Ron," said Clark, biting back a grimace, and made his way to the room with a hand-scribbled "Mr. Lord's Office" sign taped to it.

"Good job there tonight, Kent," said Lord, not looking up from his papers. 

"Thank you, sir."

"Now that Marvel's gone, you're going to need a new angle," Lord said.

For one insane moment Clark let himself wonder if maybe Lord meant to make _him_ the JLI champion. No, he knew that was impossible. But what Lord actually said still managed to take him aback:

"We're going to put you in a feud with Billionaire Brucie."

Clark felt his eyebrows rise. A feud with one of the company's top heels was a big jump in status for a wrestler who was getting mortifyingly squashed until tonight. "I appreciate your confidence in me, sir."

Lord waved a hand and snorted. "It's not me, Kent. Wayne's the one who suggested the angle. Said he wanted to work with you. Even suggested you get your first win over him in the next show."

"Uh, really?"

"Yeah," said Lord, looking at him for the first time. He jabbed a finger in Clark's direction. "Are you willing to work with him? Wayne can be a bastard to work with, let's be clear about that, so don't come whining to me about it later if you can't handle it."

"I can handle it, sir."

Another snort. "We'll see," Lord said. "You'll be beating Billionaire Brucie in Philadelphia next show. Work out the details with him. Now get out of my office."

Clark obeyed with alacrity.

The door closed behind him and Clark started to make his way through the maze of corridors toward the exit, frowning thoughtfully to himself.

A voice echoed down the empty corridor: "So what's the verdict?"

Clark whirled to find Bruce Wayne standing in the shadows of the corridor behind him, wearing a leather jacket and battered jeans, thumbs looped through the beltloops, waiting. His face was in shadow.

"Verdict?"

Bruce stepped forward into the light that washed across his unsmiling face. "Are you willing to work with me?"

"Of course!"

Bruce's eyes flickered slightly, but his expression didn't change. "Not everyone would be."

"Then they're idiots. You're brilliant. But...why me?"

A shrug. "Country boy, city boy. Rich kid, farm kid. I think our gimmicks would play off each other well. And I think..." He paused and looked away for a moment, then back to Clark's face, "...I think we could work together well too."

"Well, I certainly hope so," said Clark, stepping forward and putting out his hand. "I hope so, partner."

After a moment, Bruce reached out and shook his hand. "I believe so...partner." He released Clark's hand and tilted his head to the side. "The gym I use when we're in New York opens at six tomorrow. Too early for you?"

Clark shot him a look. "I had to be up to milk the cows at home at five most mornings. Six is sleeping in."

The very slightest of approving smiles. "Staying in character. I like it."

"In character?" Clark snorted. "Pa would have had my hide if I'd forgotten the milking."

Bruce's eyes widened, and his smile became a snort of laughter that seemed to escape him despite himself. "Country Clark," he said. "Honest, straightforward, and true. Living the gimmick."

"Billionaire Brucie," Clark retorted. "Devious, sly, and opaque."

Bruce bowed. "Living the gimmick." When he came up, his face was unsmiling once more, but he looked satisfied. "I think we're going to make a great team," he said.

"See you at six," Clark said, hoisting his gym bag and turning toward the door.

"It cannot come soon enough." The distorted acoustics of the hall stripped Bruce's voice of mockery and turned his light tone strangely serious, but when Clark turned around to look at him, the hall was empty.


	5. Mortal Combat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce start planning out their first match together.

_ "“Part of McMahon’s particular genius was to cut out the middleman, end any pretense of dignity, and give the people exactly what they wanted: homophobia locked in mortal combat with homoeroticism" --David Caron, "Wrestling Babylon" _

The New York streets were quiet in the pale gray of dawn as Clark Kent walked to the gym down the street from where the wrestlers were staying. He got there ten minutes before six to find Bruce Wayne already standing there, wearing a pair of Oakley sunglasses against the morning sun.

"They're not open yet," Bruce said, tapping the door with his sneakered foot.

"Ah," Clark said.

A rather awkward silence fell. Clark dropped his bag on the pavement and leaned against the brick wall; Bruce hummed something tuneless under his breath. 

"I noticed that--" Bruce started to say at the exact moment Clark blurted out "Is it okay that--". They both stopped talking; Clark chuckled slightly into the silence, and Bruce waved at him to continue.

"I just was going to say, is it okay that we're here together? A heel and a face, in public?"

Bruce looked thoughtful. "It should be okay as long as we don't act too chummy. We can probably even talk as long as we're being macho and confrontational about it." That brief flicker at the corner of his mouth that Clark was beginning to realize counted as a smile. "If people start to look suspicious, I can always deck you."

The gym door opened and Bruce hoisted his bag and went inside, leaving Clark unsure how serious that last statement had been.

**: : :**

"Is that all you've got?" Bruce's voice was sharp. "No wonder Marvel's been beating you so easily."

Clark finished another pull-up and glared over at Bruce. "I'm not going to show you everything I've got, city boy," he snarled. 

"Oh?" Bruce pouted as he lowered the dumbbell behind his back slowly, triceps straining, then raised it again. He cast a look at Clark through lowered eyelashes. "What a shame."

There were snickers from some of the other people working out in the gym. Clark blinked; he hadn't expected Bruce to take his heel persona in that direction. He shot Bruce an annoyed glance, sorting rapidly through various snappy comebacks and insults, discarding both the homophobic and the too-passive. "Shame? As if you know the meaning of the word," he snorted, then waited for the next comeback.

They'd worked out in silence at first, but then Clark had wanted to ask Bruce why he was choosing to do a certain set of exercises, and the only way to do it had been by insulting his choice and seeing what he said in reply. Bruce had responded in kind, and somewhat to Clark's surprise he had found himself enjoying the rapid exchange of abuse, shooting back as good as he was given.

"All I know is it would be a shame if someone didn't teach you your place," Bruce purred. His bare chest was lightly sheened in sweat, but his face showed no strain as he kept lifting his weights.

Bruce was certainly making it hard to keep this conversation free of subtext, Clark thought, hoisting his body up to the bar again. Everything he said seemed to have more than one layer of meaning, and it was difficult not to respond to the more...suggestive ones. But Country Clark was fairly naive, so noticing that subtext was out of the question. In fact, it might be best--and most amusing--if he was totally oblivious to it. "And I bet _you_ think your place is on top," Clark blustered. "Don't flatter yourself."

"On top, on bottom, I'm not choosy," said Bruce, to gasps and laughter from the other people in the gym. "But in the ring, I'm afraid the only option for you is complete...and total...defeat." He lifted and dropped the barbells in rhythm with his last words, then swung them down to the floor. "Good luck with the rest of your workout," he said silkily, and headed toward the locker room.

Clark rolled his eyes and let him go, since he was fairly certain keeping up kayfabe while undressing and showering together would be a challenge he was...not quite up to facing right now. He could hear people in the gym chattering about Bruce--and some talking about him as well, which was a surprise.

By the time he wrapped up his workout and got to the showers, Bruce was gone.

**: : :**

He got back to his hotel room--a rickety old fleatrap with a rusting fire escape clinging to the side--and pulled out a book. They weren't leaving New York for Philadelphia until tomorrow morning, and most of the wrestlers were off seeing local friends or otherwise entertaining themselves. Clark pulled out his dog-eared copy of _The Great Gatsby_ \--on this re-reading he was finding a lot of material about being a Midwesterner in the glittering East to work into his persona--and settled down on the sagging bed to lose himself in the Roaring 20s.

His phone buzzed.

Picking it up, he saw a message: _Want to talk about our match? I've got some ideas. --B._

_Love to,_ he typed back. _What have you got in mind?_

_Better to talk in person_.

Clark frowned. _I agree, but we can't meet in public. And if Max catches you coming to the babyface hotel, he'll tear you a new one._

There was a long pause, long enough that Clark went back to his book and finished the chapter. Then his phone buzzed again. 

_Open your window._

Looking from his phone to the window in disbelief, Clark got up and went over. 

Crouched on the fire escape was Bruce Wayne, unsmiling as usual, but his eyes were alight with mischief. "Hey," he said, swinging himself into the room when Clark opened the window.

Clark looked down at the street. "Did you--? You know what, never mind," he said, closing the window.

"Nice work in the gym this morning," said Bruce, dropping into the worn-out chair next to the unbalanced table. "We got some good flow going there, people will remember that. Now, can you pull off something like that in front of a _real_ crowd?"

"Of course I can," Clark snapped, stung. 

"Good, good," Bruce said absently, pulling a notebook and pen out of his pocket. "I don't like to script too strictly, there should always be room for improvisation and inspiration."

Clark dropped onto the bed and propped his feet up on the table. "So we get to have some interaction in the ring before we start to wrestle?"

"Yep." Bruce scribbled a few notes. "Lord said we get to cut a promo together to kick off the feud. Set the tone."

"So what's Billionaire Brucie's motivation? Why's he suddenly got a beef with Country Clark?"

"We need something that uses Clark and Brucie's background." Bruce tapped his mouth with his pen, looking thoughtful. "Talk to me about Clark."

"Well, he's a farm kid, grew up in Kansas." It was surreal to be talking about himself in the third person, but at the same time it was somehow reassuring--it wasn't _him_ , it was Country Clark. "Simple guy, tends to believe the best of everyone. His Ma and Pa raised him to treat others with respect and they'd respect him back." He ignored Bruce's small snort. "He's proud of his upbringing, of the fact that he's planted corn and milked cows and gotten his hands dirty in his life."

Bruce sat up in his chair. "That's it."

"What?"

"Brucie is a billionaire, right? He's got a huge mansion outside Gotham with a gigantic staff of people catering to his every whim. And he loves bossing people around and lording it over them. So maybe he needs a new stablehand to take care of his polo ponies or something, and he decides with his farm background, Country Clark would be perfect for the job. Lots of condescending possibilities there."

"OK, but Clark's not the kind of guy who'd get bitterly angry at being condescended to. He's likely to just let it all roll off his back--if he even notices it."

"True." Bruce scribbled something on his notebook, his eyes narrowed. "It's got to be a real babyface reason, not a personal slight. Clark's the kind of guy who gets mad on behalf of others, not himself."

They sat in silence for a time, contemplating it. Then Bruce bounced to his feet as though he couldn't stay still any longer and began to pace back and forth across the room. After a few revolutions, Clark couldn't resist putting his foot out in Bruce's path. Bruce jumped quick as a cat and avoided it, turning in midair to come down and kick his calf lightly. "Don't interrupt me when I'm thinking," he said.

"You're always thinking."

A quick gleam of a near-smile. "Exactly."

"Oh, come on." Clark stood up, dropping into a crouch and extending his hands as if about to grapple him. 

"I'm _thinking_ ," Bruce snapped, batting his hands away. 

"You can think while you wrestle, right?" Clark lunged forward and he dodged back, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I assume your brain doesn't turn off when your body engages."

Bruce shot him a dangerous, assessing look, his eyes narrowed. Clark feinted at him again--and found himself flat on his back on the ratty carpet, his legs kicked out from under him.

"Oof," Clark said, blinking up. "Wow, that was a good throw. Judo training?"

Bruce put his foot on his chest and looked down at him. "A little. I wrestled in Asia for a while before debuting here."

Clark was about to grab his foot and see if he could toss him onto the bed when there was a knock at the door. "Hey, Clarkie!" Booster's voice came clearly through the thin door, "We're not going to let you spend yet another night cooped up in here reading!"

"Yeah!" Ted Kord sang out. "Come out and playyyyy, Clarkie!"

"Oh man," Clark hissed, scrambling to his feet. He went to the door, opening it up just a slit. "Hey guys. Um, I'm not feeling really well tonight and--"

The door banged open and Booster and Ted tumbled into the room, laughing, with Orion, Dmitri, and Scott following after them. "Dude, you're going to shrivel up and die if you stay in here every night!" He barged through the entranceway and into the room proper. "You must have a great porn stash or something and--oh my God!"

"Look, I can explain," Clark said, hurrying back into the room. "It's not--"

"-- _The Great Gatsby_?" Booster shook the book in the air. "My friend, this is an intervention. You need professional help."

Clark blinked, looking around the room. Bruce was gone, and there was no sign he had ever been there.

**: : :**

"Ugh. I'm too hung over, I can't drive," grumbled Ted Kord as he, Booster, and Clark piled into his rusty car. He lobbed the keys at Booster. "You take the wheel."

"Why not make Kent? He's never hung over."

"Because I drove all the way here and I deserve a break," said Clark. "I'm willing to be designated driver most nights, but I'm not going to do all the highway driving too."

"Yeah, yeah," Booster griped, but he sat down in the driver's seat. 

"Shotgun!" Ted yelled as always.

Soon they were on the road, making their way from New York to Philadelphia and the next show. "When's Max going to get us busses?" Ted complained. "The DCW has busses for their wrestlers. They don't have to freaking carpool everywhere." He dropped the his seat almost into the back seat and put his bare feet up on the dashboard.

"Max can't even afford vans," Booster snarked. "Hell, sometimes he can't afford _wrestlers._ "

"We got our take after the last show," Clark said. "Not bad, either."

"Gonna be worse now that Marvel's gone, the bastard."

Clark sighed. "Well, we'll just all have to be better to make up for it."

"I wonder who's going to get the belt next? Once he has a new belt made, I mean."

"I'm betting Scott," said Ted. 

Booster shook his head. "Nah, it'll be Guy. Heel champions are more of a draw than face champions anyway."

"Guy's overdue for a face turn, he's been a heel for ages now."

"Wish he'd let us have a heel turn," Booster said wistfully. "Heels have all the fun and get all the heat. Babyfaces are boring."

The two of them took off into a long disquisition of what they could accomplish as heels--"I think our heel motto should be 'Bite me!'," Ted explained--and Clark mostly tuned them out as he watched mile after mile of strip malls and Applebee's go by. Without meaning to, his mind drifted to his Man of Steel persona. He'd wear red and blue--with yellow accents, not white, to avoid looking simply like a patriotism gimmick. He'd do all sorts of charity work, donate tons of time to the Make a Wish Foundation--the idea that some sick kid might want to see _him_ seemed impossible to even imagine. He'd cut promos against bullying and intolerance, and who knew? Maybe he could make just a little bit of difference in the real world outside of wrestling, the world that mattered.

He sighed and dragged himself back to reality as another Cracker Barrel went by. Country Clark Kent, well-meaning hayseed, was never going to be able to do anything like that. 

His phone buzzed.

_I got it._

Clark blinked at Bruce's message. _Good morning to you too._

_Yes, good morning. I got the hook, how we start our feud._

_Do tell._

Bruce started to lay out his plan, and Clark found himself nodding, making suggestions on how to get the tone just right. They got stuck on one point and he received a set of coldly blistering messages informing him that his knowledge of crowd psychology was fatally flawed and simplistic in the extreme, which annoyed him enough to shoot back some rather heated comments in return, but eventually they ironed that out and--

"Geez, Kent, the least you could do is help make this a little less boring," Booster complained, breaking off from where he and Ted were reading each other riddles from the wrappers of a bunch of gum they'd bought at the last pit stop. "You haven't done anything but stare at that phone for the last two hours."

Clark looked up from his phone, blinking. He hadn't been aware time was passing so fast.

"Okay, here's one," said Ted, smoothing out the little scrap of paper in his hand. His voice was slightly muffled from a large quantity of gum. "Where did the general put his armies?"

Booster hemmed and hawed. "In the barracks? On the field? On horses?"

"Help me out here, Kent," Ted said, throwing an appealing look into the back seat.

_I'll message you when we get into town and we'll plan some more_ , Clark typed. _If I don't help babysit, Booster and Ted might do something stupid._ "In his sleevies," he said, pressing "send," and Ted and Booster both groaned in pain.

"Okay, okay, here's another. How do you turn your soup to gold?"

Clark's phone buzzed. _"Might"? I'd say the odds of them doing something stupid approaches 100%._

Smiling, Clark slipped his phone back into his bag to reduce temptation. "I don't know, Ted, how _do_ you turn your soup to gold?"

"You add fourteen carrots," said Ted. "Ha!"

"Ha! Wait, I don't get it," said Booster.


	6. High Flying Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce practice their first match together, but there are some problems to overcome.

_The most important rule of all was to protect my opponent, not myself, because he was putting his trust, his life, in my hands. --Bret Hart_

"--let's just skip the hurricanrana," said Clark, sitting in the middle of the ring. "I screwed it up with Guy and--"

"--all the more reason we need to work it in," snapped Bruce. He scowled at Clark from his perch on the turnbuckle where he was sitting in his black trunks. "I'm not working with a partner who's timid on the ropes."

"Look, you can do all the aerial moves you want," said Clark. His voice echoed oddly around the empty civic center, broken up with the occasional _clang_ as the lighting and sound crews set up. "I just prefer to focus on mat work and--"

Bruce made an annoyed sound. "You don't trust me."

"What? No, of course I do. It's just--I messed it up before, and I'm afraid I'll hurt you.."

Bruce glared down at him. "That's bullshit and you know it. The most I'm risking is getting the wind knocked out of me, maybe a broken arm at the absolute worst. You're the one putting your body on the line, the one who's going to get badly hurt if I don't catch you right." He repeated, articulating each word carefully: "You--don't--trust--me." He looked away, shrugging. "Whatever. Let's practice my Senton Bomb instead, then."

He stood up on the turnbuckle, his face intent and expressionless. Clark pulled his sweatshirt and pants off and tossed them out of the ring, then lay down on his back. In the actual match, Bruce would take a moment to preen and brag to the crowd, giving Clark time to get into the right place while pretending to writhe in pain. But in the dry run, Bruce stood motionless until Clark was in the right spot.

Then he jumped.

The Senton Bomb was an aerial move as elegant as it was simple: a high, arcing swan dive that ended with the wrestler rotating to land on his back on his "hapless victim." Clark would have gasped at the height Bruce got if he hadn't been busy getting his arms and legs in the right positions so that--disguised as a flinch of horror--he could cushion Bruce's fall so neither of them were hurt.

Bruce landed on Clark's chest, his arms spread to distribute the impact as evenly as possible, and Clark brought his legs up as though driven into the air with the force of the blow. The flexible boards of the ring gave with the impact, making a resounding _crack_ that echoed through the civic center.

Bruce bounced to his feet. "Good catch," he said, his bad mood of a moment before seemingly put aside. "Then after that I'll go for the pin, but you'll kick out. And while I'm completely boggled by that, you can pull off your spinning heel kick--we'll have to think of a good name for that move--and we can go home."

Clark shook his head. "Hold on, I think there's a problem there."

Bruce clambered back onto the turnbuckle and squatted there, glowering down on Clark like a gargoyle. "What?"

"I don't think I should win so clean the first time. It should just be a quick roll-up and pin, something almost anti-climactic."

"All right," said Bruce.

"I mean, this is supposed to be the beginning of a long feud, right? So if I give you a good solid beat-down, we lose all the energy from the crowd. They get their catharsis, the rich asshole is beaten, they're replete."

"Right," said Bruce, "I think--"

Clark spoke over him, unwilling to lose the thread of his argument. "--We need to keep putting off the comeuppance Brucie so richly deserves: week after week, you win or I just barely squeak out a win by luck or interference, until everyone's _dying_ to see Brucie get royally trounced, humiliated, mortified. Put it off as long as possible until when it finally happens, the crowd explodes--all that pent-up energy finally reaches its inevitable conclusion. You don't want to give them what they want right away! Make them _beg_ for it, and they'll love us when they finally get it."

Bruce looked down at him, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Kent, I like the way you think." He went into a handstand on the turnbuckle. "It's like foreplay," he said from upside-down.

"Well...yes, I guess so," Clark said. "Though it makes me a little uncomfortable to think of our job as getting an audience off."

"No, you've convinced me. We have to tease the audience, whip them into a frenzy until at the sight of you humiliating me they'll finally achieve their longed-for climax."

Clark felt his face getting hot. "There's no reason to make it sound so _dirty_ ," he muttered.

Bruce--impossibly-- _snickered._ Then he dropped out of the handstand and back into his crouch. "Let's do that Senton Bomb again."

They practiced it seven more times, and each time Bruce landed perfectly in Clark's buffering arms. The last time, as the resounding _thwack_ finished echoing through the arena, it was joined by the sound of someone clapping. Clark looked up to see Selina Kyle, A.K.A. Catwoman, Billionaire Brucie's valet, walking down the ramp. Despite wearing jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her signature black leather, she moved as though she owned the place. "Nice work," she said. "You look good."

Bruce leaned over the ropes. "Selina, you want to kick Kent in the balls?"

She raised a perfectly-groomed eyebrow. "My goodness, what an offer."

"We've been working on our match, and we were thinking near the middle, Clark could throw me out of the ring and I could hide behind you."

"Country Clark would never hit a lady," Clark explained, "So of course he'd have to back off."

"And then you could laugh at him and kick him in the stones," Bruce finished triumphantly.

"Kayfabe, of course," Clark added hastily, and she shot him a laughing look.

"You boys are really having fun, aren't you? I'd be happy to join in," she said. "Though it looks like we might be getting broken up soon, darling," she added to Bruce. "Keith says he's thinking of giving me a push, setting me up in a feud against Vixen. Mrow," she said, clawing the air in front of her.

"About time," said Bruce. "Though I'd hate to lose your firm whip hand."

"Oh, you say the sweetest things," she said with a smiling pout. She pulled a book out of her bag. "Don't mind me, I'm just going to read and watch you practice," she said, going over to the seats near the ring and settling down.

"I'm surprised the bookers let you insist I was going to win this match," Clark said as they ran through a few more basic moves: an Irish whip, a slingshot suplex, Clark's Steel Bar armlock. 

"Keith and John are pretty laid-back," Bruce said as they went through the suplex, Clark's body bouncing off the ropes and back into the ring. "That's one of the reasons I've stayed here instead of going to the DCW, though God knows Luthor's called me about it." Clark rolled out of the throw, ran into the ropes, and came back to meet Bruce's clothesline, letting it knock him to the mat. Bruce rolled on top of him and covered him. "They're control freaks at the DCW, you don't get much say in your gimmick or angle at all. Here once they trust you, they'll at least listen to a good argument." They laid there in the middle of the ring for a moment, getting their breath back, and Clark realized they'd gone through a fairly complex set of moves without calling them beforehand, just doing what felt right.

"I still think you need to do something off the top rope," Bruce said. "There are going to be people watching to see if you can or not after that last match. I'm not saying the hurricanrana," he said as Clark groaned. "But just a really basic flying body press." Clark said nothing. "Jeez, I just did almost a dozen Senton Bombs and trusted you to catch me, and you won't do one lousy flying body press?" Bruce thumped Clark's bare chest with his fist. "Some partner."

"All right, _all right_ ," Clark snapped, throwing Bruce's arm off and scrambling to his feet. "If it'll get you to shut up about it." He clambered up to the turnbuckle, then turned to face Bruce, who had gotten to his feet. It was one of the most basic aerial moves: just a simple sideways jump. Your opponent catches you and you both tumble backwards. "Okay," he said, nodding.

Bruce sneered at him, lifting a hand to beckon mockingly: _come at me, bro._

Clark jumped at him, twisting his body in the air to connect almost diagonally with Bruce. Bruce threw his hands up and they fell backwards together onto the mat.

"That sucked," Selina drawled from her seat. "Do it again, and this time Kent should try jumping like an attacking lion and not a kittycat."

"You heard the lady," said Bruce, shoving Clark's shoulder.

"Attacking lion, right," muttered Clark. He climbed back onto the turnbuckle, fuming at Bruce and Selina but most especially with himself. The flying body press was infinitely easier than a hurricanrana, in which you had to scissor your legs around your opponent's neck, then basically swing your body in a semi-circle around to their back and pull them down with you. The flying body press was a newbie move. Anyone could pull off a decent flying body press. Anyone--

He jumped again at Bruce, and once again they tumbled to the mat as if Clark were crushing him. 

"Slightly better," said Selina. "Keep at it."

"Brucie's going to kick Clark's ass after the match is officially over," Bruce called to Selina as Clark scrambled upward again. "We need the referee distracted for maximum heat."

"Who's the referee?"

"We're getting L. Ron to do it," said Bruce. "Need a small guy because I'll be bullying him earlier in the match." He looked back at Clark and nodded, then caught him effortlessly out of the air again.

"Perfect," said Selina. 

"L. Ron? I agree," Bruce answered, dashing any hope Clark might have had that she was referring to his jump.

Clark decided it might be better to get back up on the ropes before being told to do so this time. "Why perfect?" he asked as he climbed up.

"I had an angle with him a while ago where I dated him to try and get access to Max," said Selina. "So there's history between us, the fans'll remember that."

Another flying press, another catch and tumble. They repeated it again and again while going over the match with Selina, and Bruce caught him each time until Clark was getting bored of it.

"How's he doing?" Bruce called to Selina. "Are we to lion yet?"

"Mmm," said Selina. "You're getting close to bobcat."

"It'll have to do," Bruce said. "Barda and Tora will be here soon for their practice."

"Bobcats can be pretty fierce," Clark said plaintively, but Selina just laughed and sashayed back up the ramp.

**: : :**

Eight hours later, Clark was sitting backstage, listening to the muted roar of the crowd, watching Booster and Ted practice card tricks, and waiting for his match.

"Ready?" Clark looked up to see Bruce Wayne in one of his ruffled confections, his unsmiling face framed by black ostrich feathers.

"As I'll ever be." He stood up, dusting off his hated overalls. "If this feud catches fire, I swear I'm using that leverage to get these incinerated." Looking up, he saw Bruce standing with his arm extended toward him, his hand balled into a fist. 

"It's a fist bump," Bruce explained when Clark blinked at him. "I've been reliably informed it's a ritualistic gesture of respect performed by partners to express solidarity."

A snort of laughter escaped Clark before he could help himself. "I'm in an angle with Wikipedia," he said. But he extended his fist and gently bumped knuckles with Bruce. 

"Let's get them hot and bothered," murmured Bruce, and swept off.

**: : :**

The crowd was fairly quiet, the mood still dampened by Captain Marvel's defection. Clark stood in the middle of the ring, smiling out at them. From this angle, it was electrifying to see the reaction when Bruce's entrance music hit: a thousand thumbs turned down, a howl of outrage shaking the rafters.

Billionaire Brucie descended the ramp, smiling and waving to everyone, then handed his robe to Selina and entered the ring. Taking the mic from a nervous ring announcer, he turned to Country Clark. "My dear boy," he drawled. "Before we begin the match tonight, I have a bit of a...proposition for you. A business proposition," he added as the crowd rumbled. "You see, my stableboy just quit, and my precious polo ponies...well, I need someone to take care of them." He leaned forward and sniffed the air loudly. "And based on your aroma, I can tell you're just the man to employ for such work."

"Well gosh, Mr. Wayne," said Clark cheerfully. "I'm always happy to help out."

"And I'm willing to pay you handsomely for your services," Brucie said. He leaned forward and put his lips close to Clark's ear, seemingly ready to whisper a figure. "A kajillion dollars," he murmured, too low for the mic to pick up.

"Golly!" Clark emoted shock. "I'd be able to pay off the mortgage on Ma and Pa's farm in no time!" _I wish._ "When can I start?"

"There's just one...teensy...weensy...little thing," Brucie said, holding up his hands with the thumb and index finger apart to make clear how small. "See, I need to make sure all my servants understand that I expect unquestioning obedience from them at all times." Clark let his cheerful expression start to shade toward dubious as Bruce kept talking. "And so, just to make our relationship crystal clear, I'm going to ask you to lie down and let me pin you."

"What?"

"I'm not in the mood to scuffle about in the ring with my own stableboy," Brucie said sharply as the arena erupted in boos. "Hush now!" he barked at them, evoking even more abuse from the crowd. "I'm attempting to do _business_ here. Something none of you basement-dwelling wage slaves would have any conception of, I'm sure. Perhaps I should slow down," he said, doing just that and articulating his words carefully, "So you can all see how a person who actually earns his money disposes of it." Turning back to Country Clark, he smiled widely. "So be a dear and model for these people the proper behavior toward your betters, would you?"

Clark felt a sudden urge to break into applause: that last line was improvised, and was _perfect_ , making Country Clark a stand-in for the audience themselves, a symbol of all the disrespect they had to take from their bosses and teachers. He bit back the impulse to grin in delight at Bruce and went on to his next line.

"Well, Mr. Wayne, that doesn't seem right," Clark said, taking off his straw hat and scratching the back of his head. "I mean, the good people of Philadelphia _have_ paid their hard-earned money to watch us wrestle." The crowd agreed whole-heartedly. "And it wouldn't be at all fair to them to cheat them out of a good fight." Clark shook his head as the audience cheered him on. "No sir, that just wouldn't be right."

"So you'll pass up the chance to make more money than you'll probably ever see in your pitiful life? To entertain _these_ clods?" Brucie waved a dismissive hand and the crowd went berserk. "You're even stupider than I thought."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," said Clark. "I just can't do it."

For a long moment they stared at each other: Country Clark apologetic but earnest, Billionaire Brucie gazing down his nose in puzzled disdain. Then Brucie smiled once more.

"Well, you've certainly got your principles, I'll give you that." He held out his hand. "Shake hands and we'll start the match."

The crowd growled with warning; Clark heard a small child's voice shrill out in panic, "Don't do it, Clark!" But a babyface like Country Clark could never turn down a handshake, even from someone so transparently malicious as Billionaire Brucie. So he reached out and put his hand in Bruce's. 

Bruce's fingers were cold against his, and his eyes were bright with anticipation.

Then he yanked on Clark's hand, pivoting to throw him to the mat and get him into an armlock. 

Clark sold the armlock as the bell rang to start the match, his face twisting with pain and betrayal. The crowd howled as he broke free and unleashed a flurry of offense on Brucie, but the billionaire was too crafty and Country Clark was too straightforward. As the match progressed it was clear Clark was struggling--the offense was all Brucie's, and he took a gleeful pleasure in being as sadistic as possible, focusing on inflicting as much pain and humiliation on Clark as he could. 

Clark writhed and flopped and was tossed into the ropes. Now and then he would seem to gain the upper hand, but Brucie always managed to beat him down again. The crowd was a vast sea of faces outside the ring, and Clark was only dimly aware of the waves of sound crashing up against them. All his attention was focused on anticipating Bruce's moves, of syncing their motions and their bodies up. A flicker of the eyes, the faintest of nods, and he could tell which way Bruce was going to move, what action would fit in.

It was like an impromptu dance, if dancing happened to include backhand chops and elbow drops. It was more dangerous than dancing, and far more physical. 

It was glorious.

"Going out of the ring now," Bruce muttered as they locked up, and Clark whipped him toward the ropes. Bruce dropped down and slid out of the ring, running around wildly until he found Catwoman. Grabbing her shoulders, he hid behind her, and the crowd went mad.

Clark, racing after him, screeched to a halt as Catwoman held up an imploring hand. _"You wouldn't hurt a girl?"_ her body language screamed. Clark immediately dropped into an "aw shucks" posture, sheepishly starting to apologize to her.

When she stepped forward and kneed him in the groin, he caught her knee between his with no damage--they'd practiced it quite a few times--then sold the hit as hard as possible, doubling over in anguish. Brucie took this opportunity to chop the back of his neck, driving him onto the floor, then scrambled back into the ring.

According to the rules of the match, if Clark couldn't get back into the ring by the time the referee counted to ten, he would forfeit the match. He waited, hunched over in agony, until he heard L. Ron's quavering voice start the countout, then started to stagger back to the ring. It was a challenge to go slowly enough to build up anticipation, but when he finally reached the ring at the count of eight, the crowd popped like mad. Brucie met him at the ropes, kicking at his head, but Clark grabbed his foot and threw him to the mat, and a new set of moves began, a new phase of the dance.

All too soon Clark found himself on the mat as Brucie climbed the turnbuckle, preparing to deliver his devastating Senton Bomb. Bruce stopped and grinned out at the crowd, flexing his arms and seeming to savor the moment as Clark lay helplessly awaiting his onslaught. Then he turned and jumped.

He hung in the air an astonishing amount of time, turning over with an almost lazy grace to come down on Clark's chest. Clark flopped madly as if the air had been knocked out of him, and Bruce rolled over and covered him.

"The crowd is hot," Bruce murmured in his ear, and Clark realized he could barely hear him over the deafening torrent of cheers and boos. "You have to do the hurricanrana."

L. Ron was counting Clark out; at the two-count Clark kicked out of the pin. Bruce jumped to his feet, clutching at his head in disbelief--no one ever kicked out of the Senton Bomb!--and Clark hadn't thought it was possible, but the crowd was even louder now. Clark feinted at Bruce and suplexed him. "No! It's the full body press!" he panted in Bruce's ear.

Bruce rolled away from him, then lunged forward and got him in a facelock hold. Putting his head down so his own arms blocked off his mouth from the audience's gaze, he yelled, "Clark, the crowd is loving this! They're eating out of our hands! You _need_ to go up there and _hit that damn hurricanrana!"_

He rolled off, glaring at Clark with a fury that Clark suspected was only partially kayfabe. Clark dodged a feint and climbed to the top of the turnbuckle, getting ready to do the full body press as he had planned. It was simple. It was easy. He couldn't possibly screw it up.

The crowd seethed around them as he met Bruce's eyes.

He nodded, the tiniest motion, and saw Bruce start to smile.

And then he jumped out into the emptiness, into the shrieking air, knowing Bruce would catch him.

He locked his legs around Bruce's neck and swung down behind him, dragging Bruce into a somersault. It was a textbook hurricanrana, and the very boards of the ring seemed to be vibrating with the noise of the crowd. Bruce struggled to his feet, shrugging off the impact, and hit Clark with the Gotham Stomp, one of his finishing moves. Clark went down and Bruce covered him again, leaning across his body.

Clark could feel their chests rising and falling together as they both dragged air into their lungs. "Fantastic," Bruce murmured. "Let's go home."

L. Ron was counting him out; Clark kicked out at two-and-a-half and staggered to his feet.

Bruce threw his arms out in melodramatic disbelief: who was this madman and why was he too stupid to know when he was beaten? He whirled on L. Ron in his referee's stripes and began to berate him, yelling about how that was a win, how Clark hadn't kicked out in time. He backed the cringing L. Ron into a corner, screaming insults as the crowd booed him, still ignoring Clark completely. 

Clark walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

Brucie turned and his eyes widened with shock as Clark punched him in the jaw: once, twice, three times. As the crowd screamed, Bruce sagged to his knees and Clark took advantage of his confusion to knock him onto his back and roll him onto his shoulders, pinning him.

Bruce kicked wildly, but the pin was solid, and L. Ron happily counted him out. The bell rang.

Country Clark had won his first professional wrestling match.

As L. Ron held his hand up in victory, Clark saw that people had leapt to their feet, cheering. Adrenaline caught up with him, and he found tears coming to his eyes. He blinked hard and wiped at his face, embarrassed at being so moved by what was essentially a fake win. But the triumph wasn't in winning, it was in putting on a match good enough that people were responding to them. He and Bruce were truly victorious.

Then Catwoman beckoned to L. Ron, and Clark remembered that the match might technically be done, but the show wasn't over yet. L. Ron went over to talk to her, and as Clark stood and smiled out at the audience, he heard cries of warning start to cut through the cheers: "Look out!" "Behind you!"

Behind him, Bruce surreptitiously stamped the boards to give him warning, and then whacked him on the back with a steel chair.

The chair connected with his shoulderblades with a shocking _thwack_ : the impact was spread out over the flat part of the chair so it didn't cause any damage, but it still stung painfully, and Clark didn't have to kayfabe his yelp of dismay as he collapsed.

Blows from the chair rained down on him as he protected his head with his hands, the cheers of the crowd changing to deafening anger. Bruce was selling that he was going into a berserk fury at being thwarted, and Clark sold the beating as hard as he could. Finally, the referee insisted Brucie stop, and there was a clatter as he threw the chair aside in pique and stormed out of the arena to jeers and abuse. 

Clark staggered to his feet, bruised but unbroken, and the crowd cheered once more as he limped painfully back up the ramp, beaming, shaking hands, bumping fists.

The minute he rounded the corner and was out of sight of the audience, he found himself swept into a hug by Selina. "That was great!"

"Fantastic kick," he said, hugging her back.

"Bea says they showed it on replay like a hundred times," Selina gloated. "You sold it perfectly."

Smiling, he looked up from the hug to see Bruce watching him, his arms crossed. Bruce nodded and walked over to him. "Good match. Told you you could hit that hurricanrana."

"You were right," Clark said with a grin.

"So don't _ever_ second-guess me in the ring again," Bruce said, jabbing a finger at him. "If I say you can do it, you can do it."

Then he turned around and walked away.

"Wow," said Selina. "He must be impressed with you."

"Impressed?"

"I've never seen him so complimentary after a match."

_"Complimentary?"_

She smirked up at him. "He did say it was a good match, didn't he?"

The other babyfaces bugged him to go out to a bar after the show, but Clark said he didn't feel up to it. Instead, showered and changed, he went to his hotel room. He wanted to read, but couldn't seem to keep his mind on it. He started doing push-ups, grimacing as the sore skin on his back stretched with his motions.

His phone buzzed and he popped to his feet to grab it.

_I've got some ideas about our next match. --B_

Clark felt a smile tugging at his mouth as he typed his response. 

_Me too. --C_


	7. Physical Violence and Bizarre Innuendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nefarious Lex Luthor once again strikes a blow against the JLI, and Clark Kent has ethical issues with his feud with Bruce.

_ I don't think everybody knew exactly what he was saying, and probably that was a good thing. And sometimes, I don't even think he knew what he was saying... and ..and that was an even better thing. --Jerry Lawler, about the Ultimate Warrior _

"We've decided what we're going to do about the championship spot," said Maxwell Lord to the roomful of wrestlers. "Tell 'em, Keith."

Keith, a diffident, bearded man who always looked a little uncomfortable actually talking to the wrestlers that he booked, cleared his throat. "We've decided it makes sense to have a--"

"--a tournament, that's right," said Max. "Three weeks, three rounds, winner gets the spot vacated by Captain Backstabber."

Ted Kord put down the plastic gallon bottle he'd been drinking water out of. "So who's gonna get the belt, Max? Don't keep us in suspense!"

Max nodded at Keith. "Tell 'em, Keith."

"Well," said Keith, "We think it's time to--"

"--to put the belt on Guy Gardner," finished Max. "And have him make a face turn while he's at it."

"Ah man, I like being a heel," grumbled Gardner, propping his feet up on the chair in front of him. Then he grinned. "But I'll like being the title holder more, I gotta admit."

"Two babyface champions in a row?" Bruce looked dubious.

"Green Lantern can be a totally different kind of babyface champion than Captain Marvel," said Max. "Less Big Red Cheese and more--"

"--Big Green Guy!" finished Guy.

Bruce waited a beat before saying deadpan, "I'd work on that nickname a bit more, Gardner," and Ted choked on a mouthful of water.

Max Lord shot Bruce a quelling look, then leaned forward. "Now, as for the exact details of the turn--Wayne and Kent's angle has really taken off in the last few shows, the crowds are eating it up. So--" he turned and quickly sketched out the brackets of the tournament on the whiteboard at the front of the room, showing the different matches leading up to a final showdown between Billionaire Brucie and Green Lantern. "Lantern will do his face turn in the semi-final match against Mr. Miracle. I want the four of you--" he pointed at Guy, Scott, Clark and Bruce, "--to work out a match that involves a face turn and a victory for Green Lantern and ties back into the Bruce/Clark angle too."

"Aw man," grumbled Booster loudly to Ted, "We both lose in the first round, that sucks."

"Lovable losers," Ted grinned.

"I'd rather be a hated winner," Booster noted.

"Then feel free to go work for Luthor," Lord snapped. "Okay, all of you, get out of here and go back to work."

"Lord's on edge lately," Clark said as he, Bruce, Guy and Scott headed toward the locker room. 

"Losing Captain Marvel's got him rattled," Scott Free said. "He can't compete with the DCW forever at this rate."

Guy made an annoyed sound. "Luthor's a shark. Stealing talent from all the little local promotions. He'll be the only fish left in the pond if he keeps this up."

"I'm just saying I hope you guys all have an escape strategy," said Scott.

"I ain't going to work for Luthor," snarled Guy.

"It may be a choice between working in a promotion so tiny and unknown it escapes his notice, or working for him, someday," said Bruce thoughtfully. "Luthor might become the only game in town if you want any kind of spotlight."

Guy spat a curse. "Let's focus on our matches, okay? This kinda talk just bums me out."

"As it so happens," said Bruce, "I have some ideas about how to work it." He glanced over at Clark.

"Hm," said Clark. "Yeah, that would go over well. But I think you should do it instead of Selina. More ironic."

Bruce smacked a fist into the palm of his hand. "Right, of course. The hubris! Everyone loves some hubris payback."

"And then after, I could--"

"--Yeah, that would fit in really well with the theme from our last match, you're right."

Guy and Scott were looking at them oddly. "I haven't understood a word you two are yammering about," Guy said. "You gonna enlighten those of us without telepathy?"

Bruce looked faintly surprised. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

"No," said Guy and Scott in unison.

Bruce heaved an aggrieved sigh. "Explain it to them, Kent," he said. "I don't have the patience."

Guy pushed open the locker room doors and looked back at Bruce and Clark with some exasperation and a great deal of affection. "You two are a bad influence on each other," he said.

**: : :**

The match came off just as they'd planned. First Green Lantern and Billionaire Brucie cut a promo that was "captured on secret camera" backstage and put on the monitors in the auditorium: "I'll make you a deal, Lantern," said Brucie, carefully looking both ways before leaning forward to stage-whisper. "If you get into the final and lose to me, I'll give you all of the prize money."

Green Lantern's eyes lit up with avarice. "All of it?"

Brucie shrugged. "What do I need with some extra pocket change? All I want is that nice...shiny...championship belt."

"Well now," said Green Lantern. "I can't exactly lose to you in the final if I don't beat Mr. Miracle in the semi-final tonight, can I?"

Brucie looked thoughtful. "Perhaps I can give you a little help there as well."

Green Lantern chuckled. Then he chortled. Then he threw back his head in a manic laugh as the camera cut to commercial.

"All right," Bruce said as Guy and Mr. Miracle got ready to head out to the ring. "Ready for your bravado face turn, Gardner?"

"Am I ready to join the goody-two-shoes team with Kent? I guess," Guy said with a lopsided grin as he and Mr. Miracle headed to the Gorilla Position.

Bruce turned to Clark and held out his fist; Clark bumped his against it. "Showtime," murmured Bruce.

The semi-final match between Green Lantern and Mr. Miracle was well underway when Brucie strode down the ramp with his trusty steel chair in hand to a rising chorus of boos. Brucie prowled around the edge of the ring, clearly looking for an opening to deliver a crippling blow to Mr. Miracle.

When Clark came running down the ramp after Brucie, the crowd erupted in cheers. A double drama unfolded: Green Lantern and Mr. Miracle battling in the ring, Country Clark and Billionaire Brucie in a cat-and-mouse game outside. Each time Clark got close, Brucie would manage to whack him with the chair and drive him backwards. They got in one nice spot where Brucie knocked him into the announcers' table and sent equipment flying everywhere, but mostly they kept it low-key: this was Guy Gardner's moment to shine, after all.

At the twenty-minute mark, Brucie finally got far enough away from Clark to clamber into the ring with his chair. Mr. Miracle had Green Lantern trapped in the corner against the turnbuckle, his back to the center of the ring. Brucie stood in the middle and wound up with the chair.

"Mr. Miracle! Duck!" yelled Clark with all his strength.

Scott Free ducked and Brucie's chair connected solidly with Green Lantern's head.

The crowd gasped as Green Lantern staggered and Brucie dropped the chair, looking annoyed. His annoyance changed to alarm, however, as Green Lantern straightened up, throwing back his shoulders and frowning angrily at Brucie. He shook his head as if he were clearing cobwebs from it, then pointed an accusing finger at Brucie.

"That man attempted to bribe me!"

The crowd shrieked with joy as Brucie threw up his hands in denial, backing out of the ring, his eyes wild. Clark caught him as he exited the ring and got a good shoulder block in before Brucie managed to scramble out of the arena, then chased after him.

He skidded to a stop as soon as he was out of sight, joining Bruce in front of the television monitor that showed Green Lantern and Mr. Miracle eyeing each other warily. Guy was selling the face turn well, Clark noted--it was hard to pin down exactly, but his nonverbals had changed from brash to brave. "I wouldn't have wanted to win that way," he said to Mr. Miracle, and stuck out his hand.

Handshakes between faces and heels were always fraught, and Mr. Miracle paused dramatically. Was Green Lantern faking sincerity in order to attack him? The crowd seemed evenly split--they wanted to believe Green Lantern had truly rejected the nefarious billionaire, but they worried Mr. Miracle would end up betrayed.

When Mr. Miracle finally extended his own hand and Green Lantern shook it firmly, then released it without incident, the crowd screamed its approval.　　

The remainder of the match went great--Green Lantern and Mr. Miracle gave them a hell of a show, and Green Lantern won cleanly and fairly. Guy and Scott came backstage beaming, and everyone clapped the new babyface on the back.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Max Lord announced, "Behold the new championship belt of the JLI!" He held the garish gold-plated belt up over his head and everyone cheered. "It'll be Green Lantern's next week, after he beats Billionaire Brucie in the finals," Max said. "Let's hear it for our new champion-to-be!"

But Max Lord had spoken too soon: Green Lantern would never become the JLI champion.

**: : :**

When Clark arrived at the auditorium to prepare for his (small but promising) role in the final showdown between Green Lantern and Billionaire Brucie, he found the usual bustle and pandemonium replaced by an ominous pall. "You haven't heard," grimaced Booster Gold when he saw Clark's face. 

"What is it?"

"Luthor strikes again," groaned Booster. "He sent Max a cease-and-desist letter on the Green Lantern name. Says his boy Hal Jordan has exclusive rights to it."

"That's ridiculous," said Clark. "Alan Scott's the original name-holder, not this Jordan twerp."

"His case couldn't hold up in court," Bruce said, materializing from somewhere next to Booster's elbow. Booster jumped; Clark had long since gotten used to it.

"You're probably right," said Max Lord from the door of his office. "But a court case takes money--money we don't have." He shook his head, scrubbing at his face with a hand. "We just have to abandon that gimmick. It's not worth the fight."

"We can work a name change into an angle," said Clark. 

Max nodded. "Yeah. Sure. We'll come up with something." But his voice was toneless and he looked gray and weary, and in that moment Clark knew that Luthor's DCW was going to drive the JLI under eventually.

He met Bruce's eyes and saw the same knowledge there.

**: : :**

_Bang!_

Guy Gardner slammed his hand into the locker again, oblivious to the torn knuckles leaving a smear of blood on the metal. "Just when I'm finally getting some momentum, Luthor goes and louses it all up again!"

"We can use this," Bruce said.

"That's always your thing, ain't it--'We can use this, we can use this,'" Guy snarled. "I'm pissed! Luthor is screwing up my career!"

"That's what we're going to use," said Bruce. "Hey! Dent!" he called to another wrestler. "Come over here."

Harvey Dent loped over, his handsome face grim. "Sorry about the news, Guy," he said.

"How long has it been since you've used that lawyer gimmick?" Bruce said. "You know, the clean-cut weasel you played."

"I've been running as just a vanity heel for the last few months," said Harvey. "The crowd wasn't exactly eating up the lawyer shtick."

"Would you like to resurrect it?"

Harvey grinned. " _Would_ I? You know, I actually went to law school for a while. I can spew that legalese like no one's business."

Bruce cracked his knuckles. "Fantastic. Let's get to work."

**: : :**

"In this corner, hailing from Gotham City...Billionaire Brucie!"

Bruce threw his arms wide and soaked up the hatred of the crowd like champagne.

"And in this corner, hailing from Baltimore, Maryland--"

"--Stop right there!" Harvey Dent's voice rang out through the auditorium, and the cheers of the crowd shifted to a confused buzz.

Harvey strode down to the ring in a sharp three-piece suit, carrying a briefcase and waving a piece of paper. 

"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to say that name on television," he explained to the bemused ring announcer. "The term 'Green Lantern' is not your property."

"Not my--but it's my _name!_ " cried Green Lantern.

"Not legally," explained Dent, opening up the piece of paper and perching a pair of reading glasses on his nose. "You see, this law firm represents the Green Lantern Corps, and your use of 'Green Lantern' is a violation of the Green Lantern Corps’ common law trademark rights, common law service mark rights, and trade name rights, and this letter constitutes the Green Lantern Corps’ demand that you cease and desist any and all use of these domain names. You should immediately forward this letter to your attorney." 

"But I don't _have_ a freaking attorney," Guy stammered.

Billionaire Brucie smiled. "How unfortunate for you."

Dent looked over the tops of his glasses at the shocked Green Lantern. "You don't have the right to this," he said, and reached out and ripped the Green Lantern symbol off Guy's jacket. Smiling, he threw it on the floor, and Brucie stepped forward and put his foot on it.

At the sight of his symbol being ground under Brucie's heel, something seemed to snap inside Guy Gardner. As the crowd screamed their support, he raged around the ring, his eyes wild. Finally, tearing at his own hair, he lunged from the ring and ran up the ramp and out of the arena.

Brucie turned to Dent. "So, Harv," he said conversationally, "How're things? How's the wife? The twins still doing well?"

Harvey Dent grinned at him as the audience went berserk at this blatant sign of collusion. "Everything's fine at home, Bruce. You still coming over for drinks this weekend?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Brucie bent down and picked up the Green Lantern symbol, then patted the sweat from his brow with it and sent it sailing out into the audience with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. He smiled out at them-- _You can't do anything about this_ \--and said, "Well, if I don't have an opponent, it looks like that sparkly championship belt is all mine, isn't it?"

That was Clark's cue, and he stormed down the ramp to the ring. "Hey, Mr. Wayne," he yelled, "If you wanna fight someone, you can wrestle me!"

Dent backed into the corner, holding his briefcase in front him like a shield, and Brucie smiled as Clark jumped into the ring. "How sweet of you, Kent," he said. "You know humiliating you is always the high point of my day. But I'm afraid much as I would love to get my hands on you once more, I just can't wrestle you." He strolled around the ring, ignoring the baffled Clark. "You see, whoever wins this match will become the JLI champion. That makes it more than one of my everyday trouncings of you, as pleasurable as those are." He snapped his fingers at Dent. "What does the contract for this match say, Harvey?"

Harvey opened the briefcase and pulled out another piece of paper. "That Bruce Wayne will wrestle Green Lantern for the championship."

Brucie walked up to Clark until he was practically nose to nose with him. "Are you Green Lantern, hm?"

Clark reached into his overalls and pulled out a sheet of paper. "I've got another contract right here and you can sign it now and--"

Brucie shoved him and Clark staggered backwards into Harvey, knocking the briefcase out of his hand. Papers flew everywhere. "Oh gee, Mr. Dent, I'm sorry," said Clark, getting on his hands and knees to help gather up the papers. He sensed Bruce behind him and braced himself: they were improvising most of this, but there was no way Bruce wouldn't capitalize on having him on his hands and knees.

There was a long pause and hoots broke out across the arena; Clark felt his face reddening as he realized that Bruce was apparently just watching him appreciatively. Then he heard the telltale stomp, and Bruce kicked his backside, sending him sprawling to the boos of the crowd. Clark rolled over and sprang to his feet, brandishing his fists at Brucie, then turned away with an effort and grabbed the remaining papers to stuff them into Dent's briefcase and shove it back at him. Still glowering at Brucie, he made his way up the ramp, but stopped to point at the cringing Dent.

"Harvey Dent," he called, "You're a lying, cheating, two-faced snake in the grass, and you're gonna get what's coming to you!"

Backstage, Guy was hastily throwing on some red and black tights. "Anyone got some ribbons, colored shoelaces, anything?" he yelled. Tora handed him a handful of neon-pink and -yellow shoelaces. "Awesome," he said, and started tying them around his upper arms. Bea leaned over him, busily applying yellow and blue paint to his face in a mask pattern. "Put some of that on my manly chest while you're at it," Guy said.

Bea snorted. "You just couldn't skip the 'manly,' could you?" But she painted a few circles and lightning bolts on his chest as well.

"Make me look crazy," said Guy. "Like, good-crazy, not bad-crazy."

"Crazy, got it," muttered Bea. "Not difficult."

On the monitor, everyone could see Bruce killing time with Harvey in the ring. Bruce picked up Harvey's wrist and checked his watch: "Oh dear, it looks like Green Lan--ooops, the wrestler formerly known as Green Lantern--is going to have to forfeit, doesn't it?"

"It does indeed," smirked Dent. "That leaves you the undisputed champion, doesn't it?"

Brucie feigned astonished surprise, putting a hand to his chest. " _Moi?_ My goodness, I suppose it does!" He waved to the referee. "Be a dear and ring the bell, then count to ten and raise my hand?"

The referee shrugged and gestured for the bell to ring, marking the start of the match. Then he started to count to ten as Brucie rubbed his hands together in anticipatory glee. The crowd noise got louder and louder with each count, and when an explosion of fireworks went off at "seven" they jumped from their seats, yelling.

Into the ring ran--well, it was Guy Gardner, but now he was bare-chested, his face and chest covered with neon paint, fluorescent laces tied tight around his upper biceps. "You're gonna fight me, Wayne!" he screamed as he jumped into the ring and grabbed the mic away from him. "I'm not gonna let you rip this chance from my bones, not gonna let you run over me with lawnmowers and tell me it's raining! Not with elephants, not with tanks!"

Brucie blinked at him.

"Wayyyne!" howled Guy, dragging the name out. "You can dig your claws into my tendons and your fangs into my brain, but you can't ever steal the championship from my golden soul!"

Brucie blinked again. Then he sidled over to put Harvey between him and Guy.

"Harvey," he said carefully, keeping his eyes fixed on the panting spectacle in front of him as if on a dangerous dog that might lunge, "I believe my contract is to wrestle the Green Lantern, is it not? Whatever...this...is, it is not a Green Lantern."

 _"You'll wrestle me, Wayyyne_!" shrieked Guy. Bruce took a startled step back. Guy flung a hand out at Dent, who ducked behind the briefcase again. "If you check that piece of paper, check the writing written with the acid that burns my mind beyond the edges of the universe, you will see that the foe of your nightmares, the foe of your fevered intestines, will be Guy Gardner!" His voice was hitting a nearly hysterical pitch now, and the audience was starting to get into it, roaring its approval into each panting pause.

Brucie held up a placating hand, smiling. "Yes, Harvey, do check that."

Harvey reached into the briefcase with a trembling hand and pulled out the contract. "Yes, it says here that--" His eyes bugged out and he stared, the paper shaking uncontrollably. "--it says you're wrestling... _Guy Gardner!_ "

Brucie grabbed the contract away to the sound of deafening shrieks, glaring at it. "Harvey, you told me this was a sure thing!" he yelled, shoving Dent.

"It's Country Clark, he switched the contracts, I know it!"

"Are you crazy? Kent's not smart enough to do that!" Bruce pushed him out of the ring. "Get out of my sight, you pathetic excuse for a lawyer!"

The bell rang and he straightened up--directly into a vicious chop from Guy Gardner. The match was on.

It was a good match, too, although Brucie spent most of it running away from the maniacal Gardner, whose face paint was running with sweat and turning into a grotesque mask of rainbow colors. In the middle of it Harvey Dent tried to escape up the ramp, only to be met by a smiling Country Clark. As the crowd cheered, Clark grinned at him, then punched him hard enough to send him reeling into a table.

Finally, Guy hit his finishing move and Bruce ended up sprawled on his back, arms and legs spread out. The bell rang to close the match and a beaming Guy was handed the championship belt. He brandished it above his head and yelled out at the crowd: "The time of the shadows has come to an end, and from now I'm gonna be what I was always meant to be! Not a Green Lantern, but something bigger! Something stronger! A champion for all the world! From now on, you can just call me... _The Warrior!"_

The crowd loved it, cheering him lustily as his new theme music--all screaming guitars and reverb--kicked in and he paraded triumphantly up the ramp, still shaking the belt above his head.

Backstage, he collapsed into a chair, guzzling a glass of water and exhaling. "Wow, that takes it out of you," he said. "But man, what a rush!"

People were clapping him on the back, shaking his hand. Clark and Bruce were leaning against a wall, watching, when Harvey Dent came over. "You know, I think I'm going to use that," he said to Clark.

"Use what?"

"When you called me two-faced. I think I can turn that into a gimmick."

Bruce nodded slowly. "Dye half your hair blond."

Dent pointed at him in agreement. "Wear trunks that are half-white and half-black, and really play up the split-personality thing."

"Cool," said Clark.

"Thanks for the idea," said Dent, punching him lightly on the arm. 

**: : :**

Clark left the elevator and started down the corridor, whistling softly to himself and groping in his pocket for his hotel room key.

The door to the emergency stairs opened. "At least that's over with," Bruce said, falling into step beside him.

Clark didn't even blink, hoisting the two little cartons of Chinese takeout in the air between them. "Got you kung pao this time."

"Extra spicy?"

"Duh."

Clark opened the door quickly and they ducked into his hotel room.

"What did you mean, at least that's over with?" Clark said as he dug into his sesame chicken.

"The tournament. It was distracting from the important stuff."

"By which you mean us?"

A quick flash of smile. "By which I mean us." Bruce took a bite of rice and waved the chopsticks at Clark. "I think in our next match I should decide that instead of a stableboy I want you for my personal valet. There's a lot of chances for--"

Clark leaned forward, grimacing. "I wanted to talk to you about that." He looked down at his hands. "About the--you know, the gay stuff."

Bruce's expression didn't change at all, but something shuttered in his eyes. "Oh?" The monosyllable was flat.

"I just think--don't you think we should tone it down a bit?"

Bruce swiveled in his chair and looked out at the lights of the city for a moment. "It makes you uncomfortable," he said, not looking at Clark. "I understand." He cleared his throat. "Well, then--"

"No," said Clark. "I'm--I'm not sure you do understand. It's that--" He took a deep breath. "Well, it's that there are kids in the audience, kids who might--might be hurt by it." Bruce said nothing. "Look," Clark said, "When I was a teen, and they did these gay gimmicks, and the heel was called a freak or a pervert, and the face was all disgusted by him--it hurt me." He swallowed and finished up in a rush, "It kind of hurt me personally, Bruce, and I hate to think of there being kids in the crowd who think that Country Clark is a homophobe or that there's something wrong with them."

He stopped, breathing heavily, looking away from Bruce. Waiting.

"Ah," said Bruce, and then there was silence for a while. "Um." 

Clark had never heard Bruce Wayne at a loss for words.

"Clark," he finally said. "I don't want you to think I haven't thought about these things. I have. I mean...I really have." Clark heard him swallow. "But let me ask you this--was it the character being gay that hurt you, or the face's reaction to it?"

"It's not that simple to just separate them," Clark protested. "But--but yes, it hurt most when the babyface I was supposed to be admiring was...disgusted."

"But Country Clark isn't disgusted by Billionaire Brucie," said Bruce, his voice low. "Is he?"

"No," said Clark. "No, he's--he's not."

"He's not a homophobe, he's just oblivious," said Bruce, and was there a thread of a relief in his voice? "So he's not coming across as a bad person, just a person who doesn't notice the sexual overtones."

"But the audience is being encouraged to see that as part of your--I mean, Brucie's--overall awfulness," Clark said.

"Well, we can work on that," said Bruce. The flatness was gone from his voice and he sounded cheerful again. "Isn't it part of Country Clark's character to think the best of people? So maybe he takes Billionaire Brucie's interest as a sign that he's lonely and needs a friend."

"It's going to be hard to maintain that when Brucie keeps hitting him with chairs," Clark pointed out, but he couldn't help a smile tugging at his lips at the image.

"Well, not everyone is really good at expressing a desire for friendship, right?" Bruce took a bite of kung pao and quirked an eyebrow at Clark. "Maybe when he hits Clark with a chair it's just his way of saying 'I love you.'"

"Like, 'Be my friend! Wham wham wham'?" Clark mimed waling on someone with a chair, and Bruce gave a startled snort of laughter in the middle of a sip of soda, clapping a hand to his mouth. The expression on his face made Clark start to laugh too, and soon they were caught in helpless gales of laughter; each time one of them managed to calm down the other one would make a motion and wheeze "Wham wham wham!" and they'd be off again.

"Stop, stop," Clark finally gasped. "Okay, we'll try that. Billionaire Brucie apparently has one redeeming trait, and it's his warped desire for friendship that he only knows how to express through physical violence and bizarre innuendo."

"Indeed," Bruce said with satisfaction, polishing off his food. "Better get back to my room in case Max decides to check up on me." He reached out and punched Clark on the arm, not lightly.

"Hey, ow, you jerk." Clark grabbed his arm and tried to twist it, but Bruce danced away, whacking him with his free hand. 

"Gotta be faster, Kent," he gloated, and was gone out the door before Clark could respond.

**: : :**

"What the hell is up with Kent and Wayne?" Booster said to Ted the next day while getting a few drinks after the show.

Ted wiped his mouth. "Huh?"

"They were having an argument before the show about some move they were going to do, and in the middle of it suddenly Wayne goes--" Booster raised his hands up as if miming holding a chair, "--'Wham wham wham!' and he and Kent, I swear they break out in _giggles_. Wham wham wham? What the hell's that?"

"They're weird," Ted said with conviction. "Hey, bet I can beat you in pinball."

"You're on."


	8. Gimmick Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the JLI struggles to keep its head above water, Clark and Bruce find it harder and harder to work there.

_ We reached the point where we developed a true psychic connection. It's an amazing feeling, being able to know just what the person you're working with is thinking, to know exactly where he's going next. It works both ways--they're as connected to you as you are to them. --Eddie Guerrero _

"You know, Clark, I've been thinking about...our relationship." Billionaire Brucie was resplendent in silver snakeskin trunks and hot pink wrestling boots as he brandished the mic in the middle of the ring.

Clark had finally convinced wardrobe to let him ditch the overalls and straw hat for a simple navy-blue singlet and tights, although they had insisted he kept wearing boots that looked like work boots. He scratched the back of his head and looked confused as the crowd booed Brucie. "What exactly do you mean, Mr. Wayne?"

"Well, I've been trying to convince you to be my stableboy, but now I'm thinking I might want you to serve me in a more...personal manner," Brucie cooed. "Would you like a position as my personal valet? You can fetch me breakfast in bed, help me dress..."

Clark laughed. "Now, Mr. Wayne, you know I'll never give up wrestling! I'd rather please audiences like the good people of Metropolis--" The crowd popped like crazy; cheap pop, but it always made Clark happy to hear it. "--than serve just one person." _No matter how handsome_ leapt into his head unbidden, but he decided that didn't really fit his character and bit his tongue.

"Oh, but the idea of you coming into my bedroom in the morning, maybe dressed in a nice sharp tux, bringing me orange juice..." Brucie eyed Clark up and down, and Clark kept his face pleasantly neutral with an effort, "...or maybe we could skip the tux."

"I'd appreciate that," said Clark cheerfully. "I'm not much for dressing up fancy." He smiled at Brucie, getting ready for the big wind-up. "But Mr. Wayne, you never told me you were so lonely."

Bruce actually staggered back a few paces--Clark had argued in practice that it was too overdone, but the crowd's laughter indicated Bruce had been right. As usual. _"Lonely?"_ he hissed as if it were a mortal insult.

"Well, sure," Clark explained. "You seem really desperate for a little company, and I think maybe you have a hard time getting close to people." The audience was eating up Brucie's horrified facial expressions, but Country Clark didn't seem to realize Brucie's reaction was anything less than positive. "I know it's been hard for you, growing up without your parents and all." He reached out and put a sympathetic hand on Brucie's shoulder and the crowd went nuts--they hated when Clark seemed to believe Brucie's lies about being the missing Wayne heir. "It's okay. We all need friends--"

As if the word snapped some internal tension beyond bearing, Brucie smacked Clark in the face with his mic. It made a fantastic hollow booming sound, and Clark clutched at his face as the bell rang and another match began.

**: : :**

"I'm too big to do a shooting star press." Bruce wasn't listening to him as usual, and Clark didn't even try to keep the exasperation from his voice. "That's a move for a cruiserweight wrestler, not me."

"You'll do fine," Bruce said, waving a hand at him as they walked down the halls of the auditorium toward the locker room. "Just don't think about it too much. You tend to mess up when you think too much."

"I tend to--" Clark sputtered for a second. "What? I haven't screwed up a single aerial maneuver since we started wrestling together! I've hit every one perfectly, I've never given you any reason to doubt me, and I sure as hell can--"

Bruce whirled and patted him lightly on the cheek. "My point exactly, Clark. I'm glad you agree with me."

Clark stared after him as he turned and continued down the hall. "You're a manipulative bastard, you know that?" he called.

"So you'll do the shooting star press?" Bruce's voice came back.

"I'll do the damned shooting star press," Clark grumbled.

And he did.

**: : :**

"Besides," Bruce pointed out later over a slice of pizza in Clark's hotel room, "We need to keep distracting Max with awesome new moves, or he'll put us into one of those stupid gimmick matches."

Clark winced. In just a month, they'd lost Vixen and Rocket Red to the DCW, and Doctor Light had decided to move to a west coast promotion. The worst thing was that the heart seemed to have gone out of Maxwell Lord. Paychecks were scarcer and scarcer, and an haze of desperation hung around the JLI offices. The bookers and Lord responded by making up more and more high-concept "gimmick matches," involving props or crazy stipulations. Most of them were simply silly, but Clark was increasingly uncomfortable with the matches made to get as much blood and violence in the ring as possible. The Warrior and Kalibak in a "Fans Bring the Weapons" match--where fans got to hand wrestlers items to use against each other--had ended up with both wrestlers bloody and exhausted. A barbed wire steel cage match between Mr. Miracle and Desaad hadn't been much better.

Clark and Bruce had managed to avoid getting booked for matches like that so far, but Clark wasn't sure how much longer they could avoid it.

"Time's running out, Clark. The JLI is going to fold. What will you do then?"

"I...I don't know. I feel like I'm just starting to hit my stride as a wrestler. I hate to go to a smaller promotion, but the only one left is--"

"--Luthor's," Bruce finished for him. "He's a bastard, but the DCW is the major leagues, every wrestler's dream."

Clark took a bite of pizza. "Never gonna happen. Luthor's never even noticed me."

Bruce looked thoughtful, but dropped the topic.

**: : :**

"A _Taipei Deathmatch_? Are you kidding me, Max?" Bruce's voice was aghast and he thumped Lord's desk with angry hands. "No way we are doing that."

"A Taipei Deathmatch?" Clark looked between the two set and furious faces. "What's that?"

Bruce threw up his hands. "It's some kind of 'hardcore,' 'edgy' crap that substitutes for _good writing and wrestling_ ," he yelled at Max, not looking at Clark. "It's a match where we wrap our hands in tape beforehand, then dip them in glue, then dip them in _broken glass_."

"That sounds..."

"Grotesque? Dangerous?" Bruce paced to the wall, then back. "Stupid beyond belief?"

"How about 'desperate'?" retorted Max. "How about 'freaking broke'?"

"We will not be booked that way," Bruce said. 

Max looked at Clark, who nodded: "I agree with Bruce. It sounds bloody and dumb."

"You know what would be better than a Taipei Deathmatch?" asked Bruce. 

Clark and Max looked at him.

 _"Anything,"_ Bruce hissed.

Max's lips were pressed together so tightly they had gone white. "Very well then," he said, his voice level and cold. "You can opt out of that match. But in that case--"

**: : :**

"--you know, this is not the kind of match that is going to make the audience say, 'professional wrestling certainly isn't homoerotic at all,'" Clark sighed in the locker room moments later.

"Why?" grumbled Bruce. "Just because we have to wear tuxedos and the winner is whoever strips their opponent down to their wrestling trunks first? That doesn't sound the slightest bit homoerotic." He slumped on the bench, looking more discouraged than Clark had ever seen him. "I don't know if I can take much more of this," he sighed. "What are we going to do when Max Lord shuts this all down?"

Clark sat down beside him, obscurely and absurdly pleased that Bruce had used the plural pronoun. "Look on the bright side," he said. "At least a tuxedo match plays into our angle well. I'm not sure we could have come up with a way a Taipei Deathmatch would have fit our feud."

"I'm not punching you with broken glass," mumbled Bruce.

"I'm sure I'd recover my handsome good looks eventually."

"That's not the _point_ ," Bruce snapped, ignoring Clark's light tone. "It's stupid and pointless, and I hate it. Violence in wrestling has to serve a _purpose_ , it has to tell a story, to reach the audience with something more than bloody-mindedness. I'm not beating you to a pulp just to get peoples' attention." He glared down at the ground. "Max doesn't understand."

"I do."

Yes." For a second, Bruce almost smiled at him. "I know you do."

**: : :**

"Holy sh--uh, wow," Clark said as Bruce strolled into the locker room in his tuxedo. It fit his body as though it were tailored to him; it even had tails. "You look--uh, really classy. I hate to rip that."

"Oh, this?" Bruce grinned. "This was in fashion two years ago. My butler swore it would be no great loss."

"Yeah, right," Clark said, rolling his eyes: Bruce had a distinct tendency to mix Brucie-style statements into his conversations at odd moments. "His butler" was a recurring theme.

"Now, _you_." Bruce cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips in a silent whistle. "That is _impressive._ "

Clark dusted off his wide powder-blue lapels with some pride, brushing at the ruffled front. "I'm just glad it still mostly fits," said, tugging at the buttons straining across his chest. "I've put on some bulk since high school."

"Since--" Bruce broke off, looking impressed and appalled at the same time. "Clark, you did _not_ wear that to your high school prom."

"Ma sent it to me," Clark said.

"Clark," murmured Bruce, gazing deeply into his eyes, "You...complete me."

"Ha ha," retorted Clark. 

"I mean it! I'm in awe!" Bruce followed him out of the locker room and down the hall, burbling delight: "Magnificent! The layers of irony and--"

"--Shut up," grumbled Clark, slugging him on the shoulder. Bruce staggered sideways, crying out that he was bowled over by Kent's fashion sense; other wrestlers were looking at them, and Clark probably should have been more embarrassed. 

Bruce kept up the patter until they reached the Gorilla Position; then he fell silent, staring at the entrance ramp. Clark glanced over at him, surprised to see him somber once again, with a gloom Clark had rarely glimpsed since their feud had started. "I hate this," Bruce said under his breath, not looking at Clark. "It's a waste of our talent."

"We'll do our best," Clark said, and held out his fist.

Bruce met his eyes for a long moment, then put his knuckles to Clark's: more of a touch than a bump, really. "We always do," he said.

Then his music hit and he was gone, his tuxedo tails fluttering behind him.

**: : :**

Billionaire Brucie's lip curled so dramatically they could see it in the cheap seats. "When I said I wanted to see you in a tuxedo, that was _not_ what I had in mind," he sneered.

"Look, Mr. Wayne, I hate to ruin your nice suit," Country Clark said. "Just because Mr. Lord put us in this match, we don't _have_ to fight all gussied up like this." The show's theme was Max Lord had gone crazy for complex reasons involving L. Ron and a mind-controlling computer program, and had taken to putting people into strange matches for no reason. Which was, in Clark's opinion, a bit too on the nose, but you had to go with what you had.

"Oh yes we do," said Brucie. "We have to do what Mr. Lord tells us, don't you know that?" His voice was light, but there was a thread of real bitterness to it that prompted Clark to shoot him a cautioning look. "So let's get this over with." He gestured at the timekeeper to ring the bell, making Clark blink: they had planned on more banter. But he backed away from Brucie, raising his arms as if to defend his precious powder-blue tuxedo.

They hadn't rehearsed the match much: fighting in full clothing made it difficult to do anything too complex, and they'd gotten good enough at their moves together that they had a standard repertoire to fall back on. Brucie stepped forward and grabbed his breast pocket, yanking. With a vivid tearing sound, the cloth gave way, and Brucie tossed the forlorn scrap of cloth out of the ring with disdain.

Not to be outdone, Clark reached out and seized the arm of Bruce's tux with the intention of tearing it off whole. However, the stitches were too strong, and it took him a couple of tugs before the cloth tore and he could come away with a sleeve in his hand.

Belatedly, Clark realized that maybe they should have used rigged tuxedos, because Bruce's was very sturdily sewn. 

He held up the sleeve with an air of triumph, showing it off to the crowd, of course unwisely turning his back on Brucie, who was tearing his hair in anguish at his beloved tuxedo being desecrated. Brucie charged him and suplexed him, then grabbed the powder-blue polyester jacket at the back and yanked as hard as he could.

With a dramatic rip, the back of Clark's tuxedo gave way, exposing most of his back. The crowd shrieked and Clark spun around trying to assess the damage, like a dog chasing its own tail.

Under his overplayed reaction, Clark felt worry at the pit of his stomach. This was going to be a problem: Clark was booked to win this match, but his tuxedo was patently flimsier than Bruce's. Well, he would just have to trust Bruce not to accidentally strip him entirely.

It turned out to be harder than he expected to avoid being stripped, although as long as he kept his elbows bent it was almost impossible to pull his sleeves off. But very quickly any attempt at the high-flying moves they were becoming known for had to be abandoned, what with the tatters of cloth flapping everywhere. The crowd was laughing as they grappled, which was the point, but Clark caught a glimpse of Bruce's face and winced--it was set and pale, his teeth gritted together, with no joy in his eyes. He was breathing heavily as he sat on Clark, grimly wrenching at his ruffled shirt-front, sending ruffles flying like confetti. Clark heard curses hissing between Bruce's teeth--not meant for him or for the audience, just an undercurrent of misery.

Bruce was miserable.

Clark grabbed his hands and broke the hold, tossing Bruce across the ring and into the ropes, then catching him with a clothesline as he came back. Lying across Bruce, speaking directly to the clenched pain in his eyes, Clark murmured into his ear, "This isn't how I intended to get your clothes off."

Bruce made a startled sound--a gasp that turned into a whoop of something close to laughter. "Oh God, this is horrible," he whispered, but when he broke the hold and came to his feet again some of the dry anguish was gone from his eyes, and he even managed a Brucie-level smile. 

With a quick missed punch, Clark muttered "Facebuster." Bruce tried to punch him in turn, a roundhouse punch that ended with his back to Clark. Clark wrapped his arms around him--strange how like an embrace it was, he thought for an insane moment--then lifted him and threw him down on his face. 

The referee leaned down, ostensibly to check and see if Brucie was okay, and muttered, "You've got three minutes left. Take it home." Clark gritted his teeth at the prospect of having to get the rest of Bruce's tux off in three minutes. They were going to run long, and Lord hated that. Unless--

He managed not to smile with a great effort as he leaned down to tug vainly at Bruce's pants cuffs again.

Under cover of tugging, he said to Bruce, still lying face-down on the mat, "You know, considering how Brucie feels, he really should..."

After a moment, he saw Bruce's shoulders shaking. 

Clark stood up, arranging his face into a confused expression, and Brucie rolled over, laughing like a lunatic. Improvising like mad, Clark swung away from Bruce to stare out at the audience with a "what is he laughing about?" shrug, and he heard the rumble of the crowd sharpen into a shriek of shocked outrage.

He didn't have to look to know that Bruce had ostentatiously undone his own fly.

When he looked back, Bruce was lying with his arms outflung on the mat, an exaggerated, "Oh no, I'm in trouble!" look on his face. Still playing the oblivious innocent, Clark lunged forward and grabbed his slacks--which of course slid off easily as Brucie squirmed away, leaving Clark standing and staring stunned at the slacks in his hand. He threw them across the ring and grabbed at the jacket, and Bruce did a complicated twirling move and left Clark holding it, gaping at him.

The shirt was a little tougher, but soon enough Brucie had wriggled out of that too, leaving him wearing nothing but the bow tie and trunks. Grinning at Clark across the ring, he did an impromptu bump and grind, reaching up to undo his own tie very slowly. He put it between his teeth and bit at it, then threw it dramatically across the ring, leaving him stripped of everything but his wrestling trunks.

The bell rang and the referee lifted Clark's hand in the air, but Brucie jumped around the ring with glee, smirking as if he was the winner. He winked widely at Country Clark, and Clark knew the match just needed closure to finish up satisfactorily for the audience.

So he decked Brucie.

Bruce took the pulled punch like a champ, spinning almost 180 degrees before he slumped to the ground, still smiling. Shaking his head as if mystified by Brucie's strange ways, Clark headed out of the ring with a sense of relief.

They had survived the gimmick match.

**: : :**

"We're going to have to come up with a non-homophobic reason why Clark punched Brucie," Clark said later in the showers.

Bruce leaned into the spray and scrubbed his face wearily. "We'll come up with something. It's probably enough that Brucie was gloating, or not taking the match seriously. No one likes being taunted, even if they've missed the subtext entirely." He turned around and let the hot water pummel his back, and not for the first time Clark had to be careful not to let his eyes wander downward much. He'd gotten plenty of practice, but you never knew when the temptation might become too much. He wondered briefly if he should apologize for making that joke about stripping Bruce in the ring, but decided against it. It had broken Bruce's foul mood, and Bruce would know he hadn't meant anything by it.

And he really _hadn't_ , he told himself sternly.

"Clark will just be confused why Brucie let himself get beaten, probably," he said instead. 

"Mm," Bruce said, his eyes closed. "Some things are more important than winning a match."

Before Clark could answer, Guy strutted into the showers, wearing full war paint and nothing else. "Max says to get your asses in gear, he wants to see you both," he said as he started to scrub off the paint.

"Oh God," groaned Bruce. "We did the best we could with his stupid match, what more does he want?" But they rinsed off quickly, put on their civilian clothes, and soon were both sitting in Lord's office, their hair still damp.

Max, Keith, and John were all there. The bookers looked nervous, but Max just looked grim. "Well, boys," he said. "I'm sure you're proud of the way you handled that match, but that's not what I called you in here for."

He leaned across the table, teeth gritted in a smile. 

"I called you in to tell you--we're ending your feud."


	9. The End of the Feud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forced to end their feud prematurely, Clark and Bruce do their best to stage an unforgettable match.

_ “The wrestling business was and always will be filled with bullies, who stripped down and dressed right beside the backstabber, who was next to the clumsy oaf who didn’t mean to hurt you, next to the worker you could trust with your body and your life.” --Bret Hart _

Bruce's eyes were snapping sparks as he glared at Max Lord. "If you're pissed about the way we handled the tuxedo match, just tell us. Don't pull a bullshit move like ending our feud just as it's hitting its stride."

"We have the next three shows all planned out," Clark said. "And an arc for the angle that could last a lot longer than that. We're really over right now, Max."

"Keith says that we need to get Brucie and Harvey's new Two-Face gimmick involved in an angle with the Warrior." Keith and John nodded uneasily.

Bruce crossed his arms. "Someone put you up to this," he said. "Someone's jealous we're getting over so well."

"Oh, it's always all about you, is it?" Max sneered. "Get over yourself, Wayne." He waved a hand at Kent. "And you too, while we're at it. The world doesn't revolve around the two of you. I've got troubles you can't even _begin_ to understand, and I'm doing everything I can to keep this promotion afloat. Your feud doesn't mean diddly to me. I'll give you one more match at the next show. After that you're getting booked separately."

"But the next show's in Philly," Bruce said. "We have to end the feud in Gotham, at least. That's only three weeks away. _Please_ , Max," he said, and Clark looked at him in surprise. "Please let me finish this angle in Gotham. The crowd there needs closure. It's my _home._ "

Max Lord shook his head in disgusted wonder. "I swear, sometimes you seem to believe you really are this missing Wayne guy," he said. He jabbed a finger at them. "You finish in Philly next show, and that's final. Now get out of my office."

Bruce slammed the door shut behind them. "This screws up the whole story," he muttered.

"You must have had other angles end abruptly before," Clark said. "How do you usually--"

"--No one would ever work with me long-term before!" Bruce yelled. "Not like you! I've never had an angle last more than a few matches, not a _real_ one, not like ours. And now it's all going to be ruined, because someone has a grudge against us." He slumped against the wall. "I wouldn't mind so much if we could just finish the angle and give the crowd some closure. But it's not going to conclude, it's just going to _end._ I--" He scrubbed at his face viciously, and Clark realized his hands were shaking. "--I hate when things just end. When there's no closure."

"Hey." Without thinking, Clark grabbed his hands, pulled them down. "We'll come up with some closure. We'll make something work."

Bruce gave him a wan smile. "You're right." He let go of Clark's hands. "Let's go get some pizza or something and talk about it." 

"Get some-" Clark shot a glance at Max's closed door. "But faces and heels--"

Bruce shrugged. "--What's he going to do worse than he's already done? Dock our pay?" A lopsided smile. "When was your last paycheck, Clark?"

Clark sighed. "It's been a while," he admitted as they headed for the locker room. "I've got enough saved up to cover the next mortgage payment on the farm, but I don't know what I'm going to do after that."

Bruce pushed open the locker room door and strode inside; the buzz of conversation died out around him. People were looking at them--apparently news had traveled fast. Bruce went to his locker and grabbed his bag, ignoring everyone's looks, but Clark couldn't help looking around, noticing who gave supportive smiles, who looked away quickly. Not that there was any guarantee that the former meant actual support.

Bruce threw his bag over his shoulder. "Let's go," he said to Clark, and they went out into the night, leaving the building together for the first time.

**: : :**

"Look, Clark," Bruce said staring down at his pizza. "This is kind of--but if you're worried about the mortgage, I can spot you for some cash." He looked up at Clark's snort. "I mean it. I live pretty frugally, I've got a fair amount in savings." He cleared his throat. "I know you're good for it. It would mean a lot to me if you were at least willing to consider it."

Clark sighed. "If things get dire, I promise I...won't rule it out." He looked up at Bruce. "It's funny, something Max said today reminded me...I'm not even sure I know your real name."

Bruce chuckled. "I swear my name really is Bruce Wayne," he said. "Cross my heart and hope to die," making the little motion over his heart and holding up his fingers like a vow.

"Lucky coincidence there," Clark said.

"What can I say?" Bruce said. "I'm a lucky guy." He laughed softly again, more to himself than to Clark. His laugh trailed off and he looked at Clark without speaking for a little while. "Look," he said, "I know I haven't told you much of anything about me--"

"--I know everything I need to know about you," Clark said. "You're a prickly, perfectionistic bastard that no one but me can bear to work with. You're the most brilliant wrestler of our generation, whether people realize it or not. And you're the only person I trust with all my heart in the ring." He shrugged, looking down. "Or out of it, I guess."

"Ah." said Bruce. "Well. That's. Thank you." He cleared his throat again. "Maybe we should talk about how to wrap up our feud," he said.

"We don't have a lot of room to work with," Clark said. "I guess we're lucky we're even given the chance to shoot a promo. He could have just canceled the whole thing."

"So right now Billionaire Brucie is wanting to be Country Clark's friend, but can't bring himself to say it, right?"

"Right."

"And we can't close with them actually becoming friends, because Clark is a true-hearted babyface and Brucie is still a spoiled, selfish jerk of a heel, no matter how much he yearns for friendship. He can't turn face, so...hm." Bruce traced patterns on the checkered tablecloth with a finger, ghost lines and boxes. "I wonder if Max would let us do an 'I Quit' match," he said.

Clark grimaced. An "I Quit" match was a match where victory could only come by forcing the opponent to actually say "I quit" out loud. "Isn't that a little..." 

"...extreme?" Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him. "I am nothing if not extreme, Clark." He gestured with a jabbing finger, his movements growing more animated as the idea caught fire in his brain. "It's the catharsis the audience needs. You get fed up and finally challenge me to an 'I Quit' match, with the stipulation that it's not just that I quit that one match, I'll quit harassing you, quit bugging you, quit interacting with you entirely. I resist it like crazy, but eventually you force me to give up completely on the idea of ever having a connection with you."

"Hm." 

Bruce looked at Clark's expression for a long moment. "It's just kayfabe, Clark," he said softly.

"Oh. I know, I know," Clark said. "I just...kind of hate to humiliate Brucie in the ring like that."

Bruce looked exasperated. "This is not the time to start feeling sorry for a fictional character, Clark! He's done nothing but torment you! He's got it coming! You must be the wrath of narrative judgment, falling on this bully like a lightning-stroke of justice." He reached into the sky like a revival preacher, his fingers straining. "You must be a sword of truth, Country Clark, to punish the wicked who would make the lives of the meek unbearable!"

Clark cleared his throat and Bruce seemed to realize that people were staring at them. He put his hand down.

"Sorry," he said, picking up another slice of pizza. "I have strong opinions about the role of professional wrestling as a modern morality play."

"Okay, okay," said Clark. "We'll do the full 'I Quit' route. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Bruce deadpanned. His mouth thinned for a moment. "I just wish it were in Gotham. I always want my stories to end in Gotham."

**: : :**

Country Clark Kent lifted the mic to his mouth and met Billionaire Brucie's eyes squarely. "So if I can make you say 'I Quit,' you'll have nothing more to do with me," he said.

"Sure," beamed Brucie. His eyes glittered with manic fervor as he leaned into Clark's personal space. "And if I can make _you_ say 'I Quit,' you'll stop resisting me and you'll come be my personal assistant...in all things."

"Now, Mr. Wayne," Clark said, forced to raise his voice to be heard over the audience's boos, "You know I don't want to stop wrestling, even to be your friend. Can't I do both?"

Bruce fluffed his latest feathered robe like an angry emu and tossed his head.

Clark sighed. "I'm never gonna quit wrestling, and if this is the only way to make you understand..." He shook his head, reluctant but firm. "I guess I'm gonna have to beat you."

Bruce tossed off his robe, Clark handed his mic to the referee, and the bell rang to start the match.

They had thirty minutes to work with--Max had at least given them that--so they started slow, settling into the rhythm of the match. At about the ten minute mark they left the ring, battling around the perimeter, tossing each other into the barricades. "Let them get a good look at us," Bruce had said. "Let them touch you, feel your sweat on their hands. Heightens audience identification." Indeed, Clark could feel hands slapping his back, urging him on as he struggled to recover after a vicious blow, a benediction and a blessing.

Brucie grabbed him and threw him into the steel stairs; they made a satisfying _clang_. Clark clutched at his head and writhed on the floor as Bruce gestured to the referee and said for the first time: "Ask him if he quits."

It was the punctuation and rising action of an "I Quit" match--the summoning of the referee, the demand for submission, the rejection of that demand. The referee spoke into the microphone: "Do you quit?" and held it to Clark's mouth.

"No," said Clark, and the audience cheered.

Brucie jumped forward and kicked him in the ribs, slamming him back up against the stairs. Clark responded by struggling to his feet and seizing the stairs, lifting them above his head as if to crush Brucie with them. Brucie flinched away, lifting his hands in entreaty, but when Clark paused in his attack Brucie punched him in the belly so he dropped the stairs with a thunderous crash, reeling backwards.

As he staggered, Brucie grabbed him and threw him into the ring once more, kicking and stomping at his ribs. Clark rolled in feigned agony, blinded by pain. He could feel something warm trickling down his face that wasn't sweat and realized he must have cut his head open on the stairs. He almost grinned: he might not be willing to blade himself, but that didn't mean he didn't appreciate the effect some unplanned blood would have on the visuals of the fight. When he heard the crowd gasp, he knew that the match was about to go to the next level.

Bruce had gone under the ring and come out with the pair of handcuffs on a long chain.

As Clark struggled to sit up, Brucie held them up, smirking and twirling them on a finger. He brandished a tiny key on a chain and looped it around his neck, kissing it mockingly like a holy symbol before turning his attention back to Country Clark.

After another "vicious" kick to the head, Brucie grabbed Clark's hand and handcuffed him to the top rope. Clark shook off his daze and seemed to take in that he was trapped: he leaped forward to try and grab Brucie with his free hand, but Brucie danced tauntingly out of reach, like a child tormenting a leashed dog. He skipped forward, giggling, and kicked Clark again. Clark snapped backwards, arms flailing helplessly, and the crowd groaned for him.

There was a feral smile on Brucie's face now. He slithered out of the ring and came back up with a bamboo cane in his hands. As Clark struggled to fend him off, he brought the cane down hard again and again against Clark's back and stomach.

It stung badly, and Clark could tell it was going to leave some impressive welts. Good, that was the point. He slumped against the rope, the handcuffs holding him up, as if he were overcome by pain. "Ask him!" he heard Bruce bark.

The referee held the mic to his lips again. "Do you quit?"

Clark let the mic pick up his ragged breathing for a moment as the crowd cried out its support. "No!" he finally gasped.

Another blow. "I'm not going to stop!" he heard Bruce yell. "I'm not going to stop until you quit!" Another kick, and Clark lolled against the ropes as though about to lose consciousness. "Oh no you don't!" Bruce screamed, hurling the cane away. "Don't you dare pass out on me!" The crowd shrieked as Bruce grabbed a cup of water from a spectator, jumped back in the ring and dashed it in Clark's face. "You're not getting out of this so easily, Kent!" Bruce grabbed his face as he sputtered. "You're _going_ to say it!"

Clark spat the water back in his face and watched as Brucie went livid with anger, the crowd's angry roar changing to a cry of glee. Brucie fell on him as if out of his mind with rage, kicking and punching with blows looked damaging, but were perfectly pulled so they barely brushed against Clark's body, gentle as a caress.

Clark tried to struggle to his feet as Brucie staggered back and beckoned to the referee again. "Ask him!"

"No!" spat Clark before the referee could even ask the question. "You can never force me to quit, _Bruce_ ," he snarled--the first time he'd ever called him anything but "Mr. Wayne" in the angle. "No matter what you do, I won't!"

Bruce went from scarlet to white, and Clark took a moment to appreciate his ability to control his color before Bruce attacked him again, raining punches down on him. It was time, Clark realized. Time to go into the big finale. Time to finish the angle and finish their feud.

He didn't want to.

Bruce pulled back and met his eyes, and for a timeless instant they just looked at each other, and Clark read his own emotions mirrored in the other man's eyes.

Then Clark kneed him in the groin and Brucie went down in a heap as the audience howled for his blood.

Clark reached out and grabbed the tiny key from around Brucie neck, fumbling to get to the lock of the handcuffs before Brucie could recover. The crowd started chanting his name--" _Clark! Clark! Clark!_ "--the name changing into a roar of triumph as he got the handcuffs off of the rope. 

Clark lunged forward, one half of the handcuffs still around his wrist, and snapped the other around Brucie's wrist.

The gasping shriek of the crowd rose in pitch as Bruce staggered to his feet and realized he was handcuffed to Clark, his jaw dropping over in consternation. Even worse, his right hand was cuffed to Clark's left hand, leaving Clark's right hand free for punching. Clark could hear the announcers selling the situation: "He's trapped now! And Country Clark Kent isn't going to take it any more!" Brucie jumped at him, reaching for the key, but instead the tiny key went skidding away from them both to come to rest in the far corner of the ring.

Clark knew he was a sight--dripping with sweat and blood, his body covered with sharp red welts--and he let Country Clark's friendly demeanour fall away into an implacable fury, as if finally driven beyond endurance. His jaw set, his eyes blazing with incandescent anger, Country Clark reeled Billionaire Brucie in by the handcuffs and punched him in the face.

Brucie screamed and tried to scrabble away, but Clark was possessed by righteous rage at last. He yanked on the handcuffs as if being physically connected to Bruce somehow gave him fresh power, enabled him to throw off all his pain and suffering in one titanic effort. And it was true, but not in the kayfabe sense. As Country Clark delivered the beat-down on Billionaire Brucie that the angle deserved, he could feel the connection between them like a living thing, the energy that flowed between them and powered the match nearly crackling along their connected hands, running between their bodies and their minds.

Brucie dragged at the handcuffs, trying to get away from Clark and to the key lying in the corner, but Clark reeled him closer, step by agonizing step. Holding the chain, he pulled back his hand for a haymaker blow, and Bruce threw up his hand and yelled "Stop! Stop!"

Clark paused, and the referee hurried over to put the mic up to Bruce's mouth. "Do you quit?" the ref asked.

"No," gasped Bruce. "No! But--but I'll pay you, Kent!" he said, desperation written on his face. "I'll pay you anything! I'll buy your parents' farm, I'll move them into a mansion in Gotham, just don't let it end like this!" He met Clark's eyes, his mouth twisting. "It shouldn't end like this, Clark!"

Clark swallowed hard at that last, ad-libbed line. It was no great feat of acting to let his fury drain away and to look, for a moment, merely sad. "Bruce--" he said--

\--And Brucie jumped forward to try and knee him in the groin.

Before he could reach him, though, Clark yanked on the handcuffs so he fell to the mat. All his goodwill wiped away once more, he grabbed Brucie and dragged him to the turnbuckle, forcing him to climb it with him as he screamed and struggled. Once they reached the top, Clark took a deep breath and lifted Bruce bodily above his head, facing out at the crowd and the announcer's table far below, ready to hurl them both down.

His arms burned and threatened to buckle; time slowed down as he watched the announcers scrambling, saw the audience react in thrilled horror. A little girl in a Mr. Miracle t-shirt screamed and covered her face with her hands.

And then Bruce screamed "I quit! I quit!" The referee came running with the mic and held it high so everyone could hear Billionaire Brucie begging for mercy. Only then did Clark let him slide down into the ring once more, panting and shaking.

The ref brought the key and unlocked the handcuffs, then raised Clark's hand in triumph as the bell rang to end the match and the crowd leapt to their feet. Clark wiped the blood from his face with his free hand as Brucie staggered to his feet. Clark stepped forward and extended his hand, but Brucie knocked it away with an angry snarl and stalked back up the ramp and out of the arena. Clark didn't watch him go--that would look like gloating--but smiled at the spectators for a little longer until finally making his way out as well.

"He's gone," Guy Gardner said as Clark walked into the locker room.

Clark tried not to look chagrined that he'd been so obvious. "Gone?" 

"Bruce booked it out of here. Didn't even stay to shower."

"What?" It slowly started to sink in--Bruce had left without a word to him after their last match together. 

It hurt.

"Good match, by the way."

"Yeah. Thanks." Clark showered, his fresh welts stinging angrily under the hot water, and dressed slowly, but there was no sign of Bruce, no message on his phone. Should he send something? No, Bruce would have stayed if he'd wanted to talk. 

Limping slightly, he left the locker room with his bag over his shoulder.

"Check it out," said Bea, "It's your match."

One of the monitors in a corner of the room was showing a replay of the end of his match with Bruce. Clark rarely reviewed his matches, and it was eerie to see himself from the outside, see the heat of the moment transformed into a story. He almost shuddered when the camera closed in on his face as he stood on the turnbuckle with Bruce lifted above his head. It was the face of a stranger, of someone nearly inhuman, determined to defeat his foe even if it meant their mutual destruction. He watched as Bruce screamed "I quit," watched as the referee raised his hand and Bruce spurned his touch to stalk away.

And then, as Country Clark smiled at the crowd, Billionaire Brucie paused dramatically at the top of the ramp to look back at him.

The camera closed in on Brucie's face, and for a moment Clark saw there affection, and regret, and a terrible sadness. Then he turned away once more, and the camera went back to Clark, celebrating in the ring, oblivious.

The replay ended and Bea sighed. "He's a really good actor," she said.

"Yeah," Clark said, thinking of Bruce limping back to his hotel, alone in the dark. "A really good actor."


	10. On the Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With their feud over, Clark and Bruce go their separate ways at work--until Max asks them to put in some time at a colleague's new promotion as a favor.

_I asked Owen Hart how his match with the Beast had gone. Owen said, “He’s a nice guy.”_

_I stopped and called to Owen, who was walking away. “Owen, I didn’t ask you what kind of guy he was, I asked how the match went.”_

_Owen smiled and gave his little chuckle, which I will miss hearing very much. The answer came back, “He’s a really nice guy.” --Mick Foley_

Max Lord drummed his fingers on his desk. "Newark canceled," he said. "No show there next weekend."

Guy Gardner's groan was echoed by most of the wrestlers in the room. "Max, that's the third cancellation in three months!"

Max looked grim. "I know."

"Where are we gonna get our paychecks from, man?"

"Look." Max held up his hands in a placating motion. "I've got a friend starting up a little promotion in Pittsburgh. She said she'd love to have a few of you on loan to get her promotion a quick boost for a few weeks. How about it?"

"She?" Guy raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, Amanda and I go way back," Max said. "Not like _that_ ," he sputtered at Booster's look. "She's starting up a new promotion, calls it the Suicide Squad. Figures if she can drum up attention with some known names, it'll help."

"Wait," said Guy. "Not Amanda _Waller_? The Wall herself?" He let out a low whistle. "Well, if any gal can do it, she can. I'm in."

"Do call her a 'gal' when you're working for her," Max said with an unpleasant smile. "If she's in a very good mood, she might even spring for postage to ship your corpse back to me."

"Well, I'm willing to go," said Clark. "I need the money." To tell the truth, the last couple of months had been hard. After his feud with Bruce ended, he'd ended up wrestling with different people, but no angle had materialized. Bruce's angle with Harvey against Guy had lasted a few matches, but Clark could tell they didn't enjoy working with him very much and eventually Bruce had been written out of the storyline. Now they were both bouncing around the roster aimlessly, fighting whoever needed an opponent, never working together.

"I'll go too," said Bruce abruptly. Clark blinked at him. They hadn't exactly been _ignoring_ each other, but Bruce had become formal and distant around him, as if, without the wrestling together to connect them, he wasn't sure exactly how to interact with him. "I've got a...well, acquaintance who's heading out to do some work with her too. The four of us can carpool."

"Whatever works," said Max. "Meanwhile, I'll be working on doing whatever it takes to save this promotion."

**: : :**

The sun had barely cleared the horizon as Clark stood in the parking lot of the gym, huddled into his winter coat, squinting against the morning light. 

"Where's Bruce?" grumbled Guy, scuffling his boots against the icy pavement. "He's late."

"He'll be here," said Clark. "He's picking up the fourth guy." _"You'll like him,"_ Bruce had said to Guy when asked about him, a statement that Clark would later look back on with annoyance and wonder how Bruce had hid his smirk.

"Look," said Clark, "Here he is."

"A Lexus? Damn," Guy said as the bright red car pulled in. The trunk popped open as it pulled up to them and Guy and Clark crammed their suitcases into it.

"Give the front seat up to Kent, Eddie," said Bruce as Clark opened the back seat door.

"What? But I was here first!" There was a brief silence, and then the front door opened and a wiry guy in a green sweater got out of the car. "Pleasure to meet you," he said, holding out his hand, "Edward Nygma." He looked back into the car. "I'll just let you have the honor of riding shotgun with Mr. Death Glare here."

"Eddie and I wrestled together for a few months in a Gotham-based promotion years ago," Bruce said as he pulled off onto the road. "He's hoping to get a full-time contract with Waller."

"We'll see if she's got an opening for a comedy heel," Eddie said. "Not much in demand at the moment."

"The Riddler's a good gimmick," Bruce said. "Excellent psychology."

"Pfft. Too bad more people don't agree with you," Eddie said.

"Wayne, why are you driving a Lexus?" Guy asked.

Bruce made a considering sound. "The Lamborghini was a little too small, and the Rolls seemed a bit much."

"Ha ha, very funny," said Guy. "But if you've got a Lexus, no wonder you need to be scrounging money on trips like this. The payments must be brutal."

"Billionaire Brucie can't be seen tooling around in a Kia, Guy." Bruce turned on the blinker and merged onto the I-76 highway. "Well, here we go." He glanced over at Clark and almost smiled. "Ready?"

"Of course," Clark said.

Guy Gardner started to sing "On the Road Again," loudly and off-key.

**: : :**

"-- _before you came into my life I missed you so bad, and you should know that, I missed you so so bad!_ " warbled Guy. Clark looked at Bruce, who was sneaking glances in the rearview mirror at Eddie, clutching his head in the back seat. 

"Oh God," groaned Eddie, "Won't you _please_ turn the radio off?"

Bruce looked at Clark out of the corner of his eye and Clark burst out laughing. The corner of Bruce's mouth tilted upward, and he reached out and switched off the radio. "All right, then," he said.

"Just because you guys don't appreciate a catchy tune," grumbled Guy, pulling his legs up onto the seat and wrapping his arms around them, scowling at everyone.

"So what are you guys going to do when the JLI folds?" asked Eddie. "Oh come on," he added as the other three passengers looked at each other, "Everyone knows it's coming, it's just a matter of when and how."

"The way I see it, we've got three choices," Bruce said. "We can either try to move up to Luthor's promotion, or we can move down to something smaller like Waller's or one of the west coast promotions, or we can make a lateral move, go overseas."

"I'm talking to some folks in Japan right now," said Guy. "They like my style there."

"If it doesn't work out with Waller, I'm thinking Mexico," said Eddie. "Europe's got some good promotions too."

"I don't want to leave the east coast," Bruce murmured, looking out at the road winding west ahead of them.

"Then you gotta go with Luthor," Guy said. "You got the talent, man. You know he's been headhunting you for a year or two now." He punched Bruce's headrest lightly. "You'd be crazy not to go to work for him. Yeah, he's scum, but he's got some of the best in the world working for him. You could be one of them." He looked at Clark. "You both could."

Clark shrugged and half-chuckled, deflecting the praise. "I doubt that."

"So what will you do?" Guy asked.

"I don't know. Maybe pick up something local, closer to home. Or maybe it's just time to get out of the business altogether."

"That would be a waste," said Guy. "You're good, Clark. I can tell."

"He's right," said Bruce.

"Hey, can I get a recording of that?" Guy said. "Bruce Wayne saying I'm right about something? That's gotta be a first." He settled back in his seat. "Okay, if I'm not gonna be allowed to sing, how about some riddles?"

"Oh!" Eddie perked up. "I need some new material for my promos. Hit me. Not literally," he added as Guy cocked a fist.

"All right, what's E.T. short for?" said Guy.

Eddie rolled his eyes. "That's not a _riddle_ , that's just _trivia._ It's short for 'extra-terrestrial.'"

"No, it's because he has tiny little legs," Guy said.

Eddie slumped back in his seat as Guy chortled. "You can turn the radio back on," he groaned to Bruce.

**: : :**

Somehow they made it to Pittsburgh without actual violence erupting in the back seat, although around Harrisburg Bruce did have to look in the rearview mirror and say dryly, "Don't make me turn this car around, boys," and they nearly got kicked out of a Cracker Barrel in New Stanton when Guy and Eddie wouldn't stop flicking their macaroni and cheese at each other.

Their motel room was impressively seedy, with wallpaper peeling from the walls and the bathtub a mass of rusty stains. "You couldn't have sprung for something a little nicer, 'Billionaire'?" said Eddie as he looked around, his lip lifted with fastidious disgust.

"I thought the point was to save as much money as possible," Bruce said. 

"You better believe we wouldn't all be staying in the same room if it wasn't," Guy said, throwing his bag on the sagging bed. "Dibs on a bed. I ain't sleeping on the floor."

"Let's arm wrestle for who gets a bed," said Bruce.

Eddie looked at the three of them. "I'll just settle in on the floor and save myself the humiliation, how's that?"

Guy cracked his knuckles and sat down on one of the flimsy chairs, putting his elbow up on the table and grinning at Bruce. "You're on."

Fifteen minutes later a rather sulky Bruce Wayne was laying a pillow down in the space between the two beds, with Clark and Guy gloating from those beds. 

"Don't mess with a Green Lantern--even a defrocked one--when getting to sleep in a bed is on the line," Guy said.

"Was that a bedbug?" Bruce said, gazing at the corner of Guy's bed with intense concentration.

Guy jumped to check, then grimaced and slugged Bruce with a pillow, cursing him good-naturedly.

Clark watched as Bruce wrenched the pillow from him and hurled it back, his hair falling into his eyes in disarray as he snickered at Guy. It was good to be on the road with Bruce--and with Guy, of course. It was good to spend time with him outside of the JLI's usual territory, to be able to hang out together even though they were technically foes. But it felt oddly bittersweet, and the easy rapport between the two of them seemed gone forever now that they weren't in a feud together. He swallowed hard and forced himself to laugh along with the others, his heart heavy.

Eventually they all showered and crawled into their beds, makeshift or otherwise--although not before Guy dismantled the bed thoroughly and checked every inch of it while Bruce was in the shower. Guy and Eddie kept up a running patter of riddles and insults that grew more sleepy as the clock ticked past midnight, until finally silence fell in the room.

Guy started snoring.

Clark shook his head as the headlights from the freeway swept across the ceiling , almost in rhythm with Guy's snorting breaths. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

Then he felt his bed shake slightly, as if someone had hit it gently.

"Wham," said Bruce's voice from the gap between the beds, very softly. "Wham wham."

Clark felt a smile tug at his lips. He put his hand over the edge of the bed, curled into a fist. "Wham wham wham," he whispered.

Bruce's fist touched his briefly in the dark, each knuckle a tiny point of contact. After that, somehow Clark found it surprisingly easy to fall asleep despite Guy Gardner's earth-shattering snores.

**: : :**

"They can't be holding the show here," said Guy as they pulled into the parking lot. "Check the information. This is, like, a high school gym."

"This is the address we were given," Bruce said stoically.

"Oh man," said Guy.

Inside, folding metal chairs four rows deep surrounded a ramshackle ring. Clark and the others edged around the gym, eyeing the audience. "Fifty people?" Eddie hissed. "We're putting on a show for fifty people?"

"We put on the best show we can no matter how few people are watching, Eddie," said Bruce.

"But _fifty people?_ "

They entered a mildew-scented locker room and began the rounds of shaking everyone's hands. "I'm a big fan, a huge fan of your work, Mr. Gardner," said one skinny kid, pumping Guy's hand with enthusiasm. "What did I tell you, Leonard," he said to an older man with close-cropped graying hair, "Did you see the crowd? I told you with the Warrior here we'd double our audience."

Eddie stifled a groan and Guy punched him on the shoulder.

They were changing into their wrestling gear when the locker door opened and a heavy-set black woman holding a clipboard walked in. Guy yelped and pulled his trunks on hurriedly, and Amanda Waller cast him a bored look and drawled, "It would take more than that to disgust me--or to impress me, Mr. Gardner."

All of her regular wrestlers seemed unfazed at her presence, so Clark pulled on his singlet as nonchalantly as possible and held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Waller."

"You must be Kent," Waller said, taking it. "Max told me you at least were partway civilized. Mr. Wayne, Mr. Nygma," she said, shaking their hands in turn. "I know the crowds aren't what you're used to, but I _can_ guarantee you take home some money at the end of the show. Unlike Max, the Squad hasn't been running in the red."

"Max is going the best he can," grumbled Guy, and Waller raised an eyebrow.

"I don't doubt it for a minute. But I for one would find that worrisome if I were you." She shrugged. "Luckily I'm not. So here's your booking for tonight." She looked down at the clipboard. "Let me make this clear, by the way: you get minimal mic time, and you don't win clean. I didn't bring you out here to upstage my boys." She glanced up at them from under her brow, waiting until she confirmed acceptance in their expressions. "Warrior is against Captain Cold, Billionaire Brucie is against Major Victory, Kent is against Slipknot, and Riddler is against the Thinker."

Eddie was the only person who perked up at this announcement. "Oh, Carmichael is at least _interesting_ ," he said.

"Just don't waste too much time jabbering before the match. People didn't come here to see you talk, they came to see you wrestle."

Eddie's enthusiasm fell a notch, but soon enough he was in a corner with Cliff Carmichael discussing the psychology of their match. In a different corner, Bruce was earnestly explaining something to William Vickers, also known as Major Victory: a clean-cut blond in a red, white and blue leotard who Clark privately thought looked like a Captain America knockoff. Vickers looked bored and Bruce looked exasperated.

"You must be Kent." Clark turned to find a man about his size with short dark hair holding out his hand. "Nice to meet you," he said with a pleasant smile. "I'm Christopher Weiss--Slipknot."

"Interesting name," said Clark. 

"Yeah, my gimmick is that I'm some kind of martial artist, specializing in ropes." He struck a pose: "My ropes: doused in mysterious chemicals to which only I know the formula, unbreakable as steel!"

Clark laughed as he dropped the pose, grinning. "I like it."

"You okay with me calling the match?"

"You're the heel, it's your home turf--fine with me."

They talked for a while longer, swapping stories, and at the end of the conversation Clark was convinced that Christopher Weiss was a very decent guy.

Slipknot, as it turned out, was another story.

"Good grief, man, what happened to you?" Guy said as Clark gingerly pulled off his sweatshirt back in the safety of their motel room that night. 

Clark looked in the mirror, grimacing at the black and blue prints all over his torso. "Weiss fights stiff, I guess."

"That's not stiff, that's _rigid_ ," said Guy. "Is he out to get you or something?"

"I don't think so. He seems like a nice guy and all. He's just no good at pulling his punches. And when he's using those ropes as flails--well, knotted ropes aren't exactly a subtle instrument."

Bruce frowned. "That's pretty incompetent," he said. He reached out and prodded one of the darker bruises on Clark's shoulder, and Clark winced. "You should ask Waller to put you with someone else."

"Yeah, she seemed like the kind of person who'd be really amenable to that," Clark said. "I'll be okay." To be honest, he was more worried Waller would pair Weiss up with one of the other visiting wrestlers: Guy was tough as nails and seemed to practically enjoy getting some real punishment, but Eddie might rupture something if he took some of Weiss's shots. And Bruce--

Clark didn't like to think of seeing Bruce covered with bruises at all, somehow.

"Hey!" Clark yelped as Guy tugged down the back of his sweatpants.

"Dude, your _ass_ is black and blue," Guy informed him. "He actually literally kicked your ass."

"Thank you for the update, Guy. Better that side than the other," Clark said. This started Guy on a long story about how, after taking a hard fall on concrete from the top ropes, he had managed to bruise his dick, which at least managed to distract Eddie and Bruce from staring at Clark's beaten body.

But when he took his shower, he couldn't help but quickly check to make sure he hadn't met the same fate.

**: : :**

The Suicide Squad put on two shows a week, which gave Clark almost enough time to heal up between shows. And he had to admit the way the tiny crowd popped when he appeared--a "big time wrestler" they'd actually seen on tv--was kind of fun. The venue was...intimate, but that had its benefits．However, being a mass of bruises after each match was distinctly unpleasant, and while Weiss was a good enough guy, he wasn't a lot of fun to work with. Clark wasn't the only one not enjoying himself, either.

"Snart's okay," said Guy. "But I don't get to have any mic time, and without mic time the Warrior's just a weird-looking dude with face paint."

"Vickers is an unimaginative bore," Bruce complained as they wolfed down Thai takeout. 

"You say that about everyone but Kent," Guy said.

"That's because it's true about everyone but Kent," Bruce countered calmly. "But Vickers is even worse than most people."

"At least the take is pretty good," Eddie pointed out. Eddie seemed to be the only person enjoying his matches--he and the Thinker had established a snarky, prickly chemistry that was making them both happy. 

"It's true," Clark had to admit. Waller ran a tight ship, and everything was well-organized and efficient. It wasn't her fault Weiss didn't know how to pull a punch.

"How are the t-shirt sales going?" Guy said to Eddie. Especially at smaller promotions, wrestlers were allowed to put up tables hawking their merchandise--most of which were self-made, of course--and selling autographs.

"Sold another three tonight," Eddie said proudly.

"You really need a shirt," Guy said to Clark, making a motion to slug him on the arm, quickly aborted when he caught sight of the bruises again. "Nothing beats seeing fans wearing your shirt."

"Max hasn't seen fit to make one for me yet," said Clark, "Unlike certain champions and top heels I could name," he said with a grin. Warrior shirts were currently the JLI's best-seller, and even Billionaire Brucie shirts (with a fake tux on the front) were selling fairly well. 

"Make your own," said Eddie, waving his green shirt dotted with question marks in the air. "It's an investment, man!"

Clark shrugged. "The autographs and photos are enough," he said. He actually loved signing autographs and posing for pictures, especially with the kids who looked at you as if you were really some kind of hero. "Besides, what would I even put on it? A cow? 'Country Clark Kent' isn't a gimmick I want associated with a shirt forever."

"You need to look ahead," Bruce said to him as Guy and Eddie started bickering about who had the better shirt design.

"I'll be happy to just make it through the next show," Clark grumbled.

Bruce took another bite of pad thai and chewed thoughtfully before speaking again. "Then I'll just have to look ahead for both of us," he said.


	11. Unbreakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lucky break in the middle of a match gives Clark fifteen minutes of fame before they return to Philadelphia.

_ [Promoter] Paul Heyman would rather climb a tree and lie than stay on the ground and tell the truth. --Jim Cornette. _

The audience roared as Slipknot threw his "unbreakable ropes" over Country Clark Kent's shoulders and under his arms, tying him to the turnbuckle with a dramatic "x" of ropes criss-crossing his chest. "No one has ever escaped from my bonds, treated with chemicals only my genius can comprehend! You will never get free now, Kent!" Laughing maniacally, Slipknot began to kick viciously at the helplessly bound Clark. As usual a fair number of the kicks actually connected, sending twinges of pain through his body.

"Sorry," whispered Weiss after one particularly inept shot.

"No problem," Clark muttered, although he gritted his teeth and glared at Slipknot as if he were seething with fury. It wasn't that hard to do.

Slipknot retreated to the far corner to gloat and prepare for his next move, a dropkick with a running start. It was supposed to connect with Clark's solar plexus and set up the next set of moves that would give Slipknot the win. Clark took a deep breath, then winced as pain stabbed through his chest. It was worse than usual, and it took him a moment to get his breath. As Slipknot whipped the audience into a frenzy, Clark started straining against his bonds as if he were desperately struggling to get free. He clenched his fists and lunged against the ropes, preparing himself for the feet to the stomach.

And the ropes groaned, gave way, and snapped.

Clark staggered forward a couple of steps before he could stop himself, looking down stupidly at Slipknot's ultra-special "unbreakable" ropes.

_Oops._

He heard the crowd go totally silent for a heartbeat, and then pandemonium broke out in the little high school gym as every spectator (all sixty-odd of them) leapt to their feet simultaneously, screaming. Clark looked up at Weiss, who gave him the slightest of shrugs and a wry smile before jumping forward and connecting with the kick that would send Clark down for the count.

"You need to take better care of your gear," Guy said later, back in the locker room to a sheepish Weiss. "Kind of ruins your gimmick if someone can bust your unbreakable ropes."

Weiss lifted the frayed rope and sighed. "Maybe it's time for a new gimmick anyway. Having to use ropes in everything kind of limits my options, you know?"

"Sorry," said Clark.

"No problem. Hey, it was an awesome moment, wasn't it? Did you hear that pop you got from the crowd?" Weiss seemed so honestly pleased with the match that Clark could almost forgive the bruises up and down his sides and the pain in his chest whenever he inhaled.

"Guys?" Eddie hoisted his laptop. "Check this out. Clark's on Youtube."

"There's always video of matches floating around Youtube," Guy said.

"Yeah? How many of them have three thousand hits two hours after being uploaded?" Eddie read out loud: " _Amazing Feat of Strength._ Apparently some fan tonight was impressed," he mused. "And apparently some other people are too."

By the time they got back to the hotel room, the hit counter was high enough that Clark felt uncomfortable looking at it. "Clark, you're a phenom," Guy said, and punched his ribs lightly.

Clark sucked in a breath of pain that became a gasp as that hurt too, and Bruce's head came up from the book he was reading, a frown darkening his face.

"Are you wrestling injured, you idiot?"

"Okay, I admit it, Weiss got me pretty bad tonight," Clark said.

"Take your shirt off," said Bruce.

Clark hesitated for a moment, then peeled off his shirt.

Eddie and Guy whistled out loud, and Bruce's frown sharpened. Putting down the book, he sat down next to Clark on the bed and reached out to touch Clark's chest. "I won't bite," he said softly as Clark winced before he could touch him, then ran his hands very lightly across Clark's ribcage. "How deeply can you breathe before it hurts?"

Clark took a careful breath, then stopped, grimacing. Bruce's hands brushed along his ribs in a way that would have been distractingly pleasant if he weren't in pain, and he bit his lip at the thought.

"Look over your shoulder," Bruce said.

"Ow," Clark said as he turned.

"Good."

"Good?"

"A broken rib doesn't usually hurt more when you twist your torso," Bruce said. "And I don't see any unusual protrusions. So not broken. But bruised, definitely. You're going to have to tell Waller you can't wrestle at the next show."

"I can't do that," Clark groaned. He gestured at Eddie's laptop. "Look at that hit counter! I can't skip the next show and lose all my momentum." Eddie sang out a new number and Clark winced again.

Bruce hissed a breath through his teeth. "At least tell her you need to have a lighter match."

"I'll tell her, but she might not listen. This has got to be good news for her promotion."

**: : :**

As it turned out, Waller apparently felt it was better to give Country Clark Kent a light match than to risk injuring him so badly that he couldn't wrestle for the rest of his time with her. As a result, the next evening Country Clark cut a promo about his "amazing feat of strength," which gave Clark a chance to say "aw shucks, it wasn't nothing" and scratch the back of his head bemusedly until Slipknot jumped him from behind and knocked him out, leaving him dazed, angry--and deeply relieved that he hadn't had to wrestle a whole match.

After his appearance he went over to the makeshift tables set up for autographs and t-shirt sales and sat down next to Bruce, who was in the middle of selling one of his fake-tuxedo shirts. Not for the first time, Clark wished he could wear in public the Billionaire Brucie shirt he had surreptitiously purchased.

"Hey," said Bruce with a small wave. "I just got a box of stuff for you."

His voice was so studiously casual that Clark narrowed his eyes without thinking. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, it's nothing much," Bruce said, indicating two brown boxes stamped with "Express Mail" sitting next to the table. "Give them a look."

Clark opened the boxes and felt his jaw drop. Inside were...t-shirts. A stack of shirts in royal blue, with a design in red: a stylized image of himself caught in the moment of breaking Slipknot's ropes, his chest and biceps straining. Over his head was written "Man of Steel."

"Bruce--"

"There are only fifty," Bruce rode over his words, sounding apologetic and somehow flustered. "I know it's presumptuous of me, but I came up with the idea late that night, and I happen to have a sweet deal with a silkscreener, so I just decided it was easier to get forgiveness than permission and sent the design off to him and, well, here they are. If you'd let me help with your mortgage, I might not have done it," he said defensively at Clark's expression. "But you need a shirt, and--"

"Oh. My. God. Is that your shirt, Mr. Kent? Can I buy one? I've wanted you to have a shirt for _ages_." A young teenaged girl with her dark hair in cornrows was bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement. "I'm such a big fan, my dad's in Pittsburgh on business and I convinced him to come to your show." She seized the shirt that Clark held out to her and clutched it to her chest, then opened it up to beam at it. "I saw your video on Youtube, with the ropes breaking--that was incredible! Man of Steel? That's an awesome motto!"

"Well, it's what I want to go by someday," Clark said, sneaking a glance at Bruce, who was managing to look both sheepish and smug at the same time.

"I love it. I love it!" She handed him a wrinkled bill, then held out her show program, biting her lip. "Could I get an autograph too?"

Clark smiled at her. This was a lot more fun than getting pummeled by Weiss. "My pleasure, Miss..."

"Irons," the girl said. "Natasha Irons. My dad's a big fan too, but he probably wouldn't admit it."

Clark grinned and signed the program: _Dear Natasha, thanks for coming to the show! Yours truly, Country Clark Kent,_ then added, _P.S. thanks to your dad too!_ and a smiley face.

She chortled as he handed it back. "Oh, he's going to love this," he said. "You're the best, you really are."

Clark ducked his head. "Thank you kindly, miss," he said, and she laughed again.

Bruce looked over from where he had started posing for a photo with a little boy, pretending to hand him a twenty dollar bill and then pull it away. "Oh, the fake modesty again, Kent?"

Clark bit back a smile at the familiar bantering tone in his voice. "Come on, Mr. Wayne," he said, "Give it a rest for a little while."

"You think you're all hot stuff because you're some kind of 'Internet phenomenon,'" Bruce said, making the scare quotes with his fingers and pulling the bill away from the jumping, laughing boy once more. "Well, Hot Stuff, I can still lick you any day of the week."

"I'd like to see you try to lick me," said Clark, and gave Natasha an innocent look as she stifled a giggle in her hand.

" _I'd_ like to see me try to lick you," Bruce shot back. "Name the time and place, Man of Steel, and we'll see what you're _really_ made of."

"I don't think you should let him talk to you like that," Natasha stage-whispered.

Bruce folded up the twenty-dollar bill and slipped it into the kid's pocket, shooing him away as he sat back down. "Clark knows I only have his welfare at heart. Don't you, Clark?"

Clark nodded solemnly at Natasha. "He's a good friend. He's much nicer than he looks, actually."

"He looks pretty nice to me," Natasha blurted out, and ran off, clutching her program.

"Guess I need to work on my menacing glare more," Bruce said easily.

"How many fake twenties are you going to hand out tonight, anyway? You look like a spendthrift."

Bruce grinned and shrugged. "I prefer to call it looking magnanimous." He looked up at where the Riddler was delivering his Riddle-Me-This shoulder claw hold to the writhing Thinker. "I'd better hurry up and change, I've got a match with Slipknot in a few."

"Oh, Slipknot's getting a full match with you tonight?" Clark frowned. Waller had arranged a match between them? He didn't like that at all. "Be careful with him."

Bruce shot him a gleaming smile. "Oh, I'll be very careful with him," he said.

**: : :**

When the show ended, Clark had sold nearly ten shirts already and was feeling almost giddy despite the pain in his ribs. He hadn't been able to see Brucie's match with Slipknot very well between autographs, but Bruce was still walking when they left the ring, so that was a good sign. He put the boxes of shirts on a dolly--his ribs wouldn't allow him to hoist them--as the audience trickled out of the gym into the night and wandered to the locker rooms.

"Oh man," he heard Weiss groan to Vickers as he walked by, "You didn't warn me Wayne fought so stiff!"

"That's funny," said Vickers, "He's one of the best workers I've ever been paired with. I mean, he's a stunning bore and condescends like crazy, but I never feel a thing, fighting with him."

"Well, he was definitely off his game tonight," said Weiss. "I mean, look at this!"

He pulled off his sweatshirt and Clark stopped cold, staring at his torso, where a variety of bruises were already rising under the skin, a pattern of pain etched onto flesh.

A pattern that perfectly matched each and every bruise on Clark's own body.

"Um, looks painful," Clark said when Weiss looked his way. "He didn't, um, fracture your ribs or anything, did he?"

Weiss took a careful breath. "Nah, it's all just light damage," he said, and Clark breathed a small sigh of relief. "He needs to learn to pull his punches better, though!"

Vickers looked uncomfortable. "Speaking of that, buddy..." Clark walked off briskly before he could hear the end of the sentence, but looking back at Weiss's chagrined expression made it clear he was getting lectured about his rough style.

Bruce and Guy emerged from the showers shortly after, scrubbing at their hair. "I hear you finally got some shirts made," said Guy. "Let's see 'em!"

Clark unraveled one of the shirts and Guy made an appreciative noise. "Glad you finally gave in and got one made up, you need more PR like this." Clark glanced at Bruce, who was pulling on his jeans with a serene half-smile on his face, and decided not to enlighten Guy as to the source of the shirts.

Eddie came over from another conference with Carmichael. "Did you see my match? Wasn't it great?"

"It looked impressive," Clark agreed.

Eddie beamed. "How was your match with Weiss?" he asked, turning to Bruce. "Did you survive?"

Bruce's enigmatic smile widened slightly. "I think it was an excellent match," he said. "In fact, I enjoyed it quite a lot."

**: : :**

"Good luck, you guys," said Eddie, shaking each of their hands in turn as they threw their luggage in the trunk. 

"I hope Waller gives you a permanent contract soon," said Clark.

"We're in negotiations," said Eddie. "She drives a hell of a hard bargain, but I think it'll work out okay."

"Wish we could say the same," grumbled Guy, taking his hand. "Won't say I'll miss you, egghead."

"No, that's a different guy," Eddie said seriously, then grinned. "Man walks over, man walks under, In times of war he burns asunder. What is it?"

Guy groaned. "Do I care?"

"A bridge," said Bruce.

Eddie pointed at him. "Curses, foiled again," he chortled. "Don't burn your bridges, boys," he said, walking off with a wave.

"Weird dude," said Guy.

"I kind of liked him," said Clark.

"You didn't have to share a back seat across Pennsylvania with him." But despite his complaints, Guy was subdued as they loaded up the car and started back toward Philadelphia. All the top-40 radio Bruce could find couldn't induce him to sing, not even when "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together" came on. "I just got a bad feeling," he muttered when Clark asked him if anything was wrong.

They arrived in Philadelphia in the early evening, and headed to JLI headquarters to check in and see if anyone was needed for tomorrow night's match.

"Oh," said L. Ron when they came through the doors. "You're back." He looked down at his hands. "The boss wants to see you."

"Sure thing, shrimp," said Guy, raising an eyebrow. 

The halls were oddly quiet as they headed to Max's office. As the door swung open, the man behind the desk smiled widely and swung his feet off the polished wood, leaning forward and steepling his fingers in front of him.

"Welcome back, boys," said Lex Luthor.


	12. Invasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lex Luthor explains what the employees of his newest acquisition can expect, and the JLI wrestlers wait to see who will get contracts for the DCW.

_It is unfortunate that he died before I could kill him. I would have enjoyed that. --promoter Vince McMahon, about his abusive stepfather_

"What the hell is up here, Luthor?" Guy had surged forward at the sight of Lex Luthor behind Max's desk, and now he shook an angry fist at him. "Where's Max, you snake?"

" _Tsk tsk,_ Mr. Gardner," said Luthor. "Is that any way to talk to the savior of your promotion?"

_"Savior?"_

"Indeed. I have agreed, out of the kindness of my heart, to help Mr. Lord with certain debts that he has incurred, in return for the JLI becoming, shall we say, a partner--well, junior partner, that is--with the DCW."

"In other words, you're gobbling up the JLI like a shark swallows a minnow."

Luthor's smile widened. "Oh, I'd say the JLI rates at least a blowfish."

"Well, I hope it's a blowfish that's--that's poorly prepared and poisons you and you choke on it!" Guy blustered.

"Save the tortured metaphors for your promos, Mr. Gardner," said Luthor.

"I'm not doing any promos for you, you cheating louse," said Guy.

Luthor stood up, his smile gone. "Let us make sure we understand each other," he said. "Max Lord ran up debts he could not repay. Although I am hardly weeping with sorrow over his poor business choices, they were _his_ choices and _his_ responsibility. Please also keep in mind that despite his financial woes, he could have chosen to cut back, to be content with a smaller scope. Instead he _chose_ to sell his promotion to me, to take the money and run. I don't cheat." He paused, and the smile came back. "Unless I have to." 

"So how is this going to work?" Bruce was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and his eyes opaque.

"Mr. Lord may not have mentioned this, but you have three shows left. Not because of my purchase, but because there are no more shows booked after that. So you have those three shows and enough time to wrap up storylines. Your contracts with Mr. Lord are good until then. After that--" Luthor shrugged. "I'm offering full-time contracts to a few of you, and developmental contracts to most of the others, a chance to work for me for a little while on a provisional basis. And then we're going to run an invasion storyline."

"How so?" Bruce's voice was neutral, but Clark felt his attention focus in on Luthor like a laser sharpening.

Luthor sat down and leaned across the table. "I've explained this to the others already, but here are the basics: we're going to break the fourth wall a bit, mess with the fans' heads. In the penultimate show, we'll have a bunch of masked figures break in, do run-ins, interfere with matches. Dirty tricks and the like. Then in the final show, they reveal that they're actually DCW wrestlers. I'll send in some of my top heels: Sinestro, Scarecrow, Cheetah, maybe Metallo. Huge reveal, should get the message boards buzzing like crazy. They announce they're taking over and closing the JLI. Then after that, the former JLI members start pulling their own invasion, fighting back in the DCW. Make it look like it's actual revenge, like you're honestly breaking in and beating people up."

"That's..." Bruce paused. "That's actually pretty brilliant," he said.

"I know," said Luthor.

"But there's a narrative problem."

Luthor frowned. "Explain."

"It's not satisfying enough for the JLI fans. Look," Bruce said, leaning forward. "JLI fans are a special bunch. The DCW has a lot of marks as fans, people who still believe it's all real, pretty much. But JLI fans are mostly smarks, they know it's fake and they don't care, they love it anyway. They're loyal, they're smart, they buy a lot of merchandise and you don't want to lose them. So they need some extra closure, a sense they're being respected on their own terms, a reason to switch to your product."

Luthor leaned back, his eyes narrowed. "I'm listening. Pitch me your idea."

"The invading heels all have to be former JLI wrestlers: Darkseid, Desaad, Deadshot, Rocket Red, and so on. You've got quite a few of them to choose from," Bruce added wryly. "They have to attack the people they used to have feuds with. That'll drive the smarks crazy, because they know that extra bit of history. Then _you_ show up at the end of the show and announce you've bought us out, it's all over."

Luthor steepled his fingers together and drummed them against each other. He was almost smiling. "The JLI defies me, insists on putting on one last show despite my evil machinations."

Bruce pointed at him in triumph. "Exactly. Then the _last_ show we make a sort of greatest-hits for the fans. All the biggest feuds over the last few years get resurrected. We end with a huge scrum in the middle of the ring between the JLI and the DCW, clear the benches, and in the end one man stands alone, battered but triumphant, a symbol of the indomitable will of the JLI even in defeat."

"You, I suppose," said Luthor.

Bruce looked puzzled. "No, Guy, of course."

"What?" said Luthor and Guy together.

Bruce made an exasperated noise. "It's _obvious_ ," he snapped. "The Warrior is the perfect symbol of the JLI. All the smarks know how you robbed him of his Green Lantern identity--" Guy made a growling noise and Bruce went on hurriedly, "--they know he's never going to work for you, so he's the best symbol for the end of the JLI."

"He'll never let me do that," said Guy contemptuously.

But Luthor touched his steepled fingers to his mouth and nodded slowly. "Wayne is right. It's too good to pass up." He pointed at Guy. "However, I have one stipulation--"

"--Yeah, yeah, I gotta drop the belt the night before," said Guy. "I expected that. I'll give it up to anyone you choose, as long it's a JLI guy and not one of your DCW stooges--I ain't no weasel like Batson, I'd never steal a belt and take it to another promotion."

Luthor lifted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug, and Clark heard Guy's teeth grating. "That works for me," Luthor said easily.

Bruce turned to Guy and Clark. "Guys," he said, "I need a little time with Luthor alone, if you don't mind."

"Whatever, man," said Guy. "I need to go sanitize my hands or something anyway."

He barged out, leaving Bruce and Luthor looking at each other and Clark looking at them. "I'll...see you soon, then," said Clark.

Bruce hadn't taken his eyes off Luthor. "I'll be out in just a minute," he said.

Clark nodded and the door swung shut behind him. The hallway beyond was empty, and he took a few steps and then stopped, hesitating.

From behind the door he heard Bruce's voice: "So. Who of the JLI are you going to sign?"

Luthor's voice sounded amused. "You, if you'll deign to work with me. Of the rest, I'll offer full contracts to Scott and Barda Free, of course. Harvey Dent. Selina Kyle. Don't even bother to suggest I ask Gardner, I have my pride."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Most of the rest will be offered developmental contracts. If they accept they'll be sent to regional territories to see how they work out. Maybe they'll prove themselves, maybe not." There was a brief silence. "So. Will you deign to work with me, Wayne?"

"I might, but we need to discuss a few stipulations," Bruce said.

"Yes, you've made that quite clear. Now, to start with--"

Clark started guiltily as Bea and Tora came around the corner; he started walking again, Luthor's voice fading behind him, plastering a smile on his face as he drew near to them. "Did you see where Guy went?"

Tora drooped. "He went toward the common room. He's...not in a good mood."

"I don't think any of us are," Clark sighed.

**: : :**

In the common room, Booster and Beetle were looking over their contracts. "He's packing us off to Detroit? The Detroit territory is for losers," grumbled Booster.

"A developmental contract is better than no contract at all," said Beetle philosophically.

"I can't believe I'm going to be the JLI's last champion," Harvey Dent was saying to Guy. "Are you sure you're willing to drop the belt to me?"

Guy clapped him on the back. "The Warrior and Two-Face have had a good feud, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather hand it over to."

Clark sat in the corner, watching people gossip and complain. Bruce was next to him, sitting backwards on a chair with his arms draped over the back, lost in thought. Clark knew better than to bother him while he was brooding, so he didn't ask whether he'd signed with Luthor or not. Bruce would tell him when he felt like telling him, and not a moment sooner.

For now, it felt oddly good to sit in silence together in the middle of chaos.

Selina was standing behind the ratty sofa with one hand on its back, lifting one leg in the air above her head with the practiced ease of a gymnast. "Have you got your contract yet, Kent?"

Clark shook his head. "How about you?"

"Yep. I'm signing full-time," Selina said. "Lex knows how to treat his wrestlers right--at least those who get over--and I'd be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this." She grabbed her foot and touched it to her head. "What we need is to pool our money, start our own promotion," she said idly. "Wrestler-owned, wrestler-run."

"It's not so simple," Bruce said abruptly. "It takes more than money, it takes contacts, infrastructure. Good relationships with the whole network of people who make it possible: local promoters, merchandisers, the media. Even local governments--laws about violence, sports, and entertainment can get really difficult to work around. Lionel Luthor started a dynasty for his son, it's hard to compete with that. Plus you need an eye for talent and how to promote it, an ability to see the big picture and the details at the same time." He dropped his chin onto his hands, frowning into space. "Most importantly, you need charisma or trustworthiness--ideally both--so people will be willing to work with you."

Selina laughed shortly. "I was just daydreaming out loud," she said. "I'm pretty sure if we put all our funds together we'd end up in debt. It's a nice dream, but not a reality."

"Not yet," muttered Bruce, and lapsed back into brooding.

A woman with her blond hair pulled back into a severe bun, wearing a black business suit, entered the room; conversations didn't stop, but everyone's attention shifted subtly to her as she walked up to Clark and Bruce and handed each of them an envelope. "Here you go," she said, and walked away.

"Mercy Graves," said Selina when Clark cast her a questioning look. "Luthor's chauffeur, secretary, you name it. That would be your contracts, then."

Clark started to open it, reminding himself that he was damn lucky to be offered anything at all. And there could be good sides to being sent off to a developmental territory. If he remembered right, there was a DCW promotion in Kansas City--he could see Ma and Pa more often. Detroit was a tougher sell, but still--

He unfolded the paper and scanned through it once, then twice. 

"I don't understand," he said out loud. Selina looked over at him; Bruce continued to stare off into space, his mind elsewhere, his envelope unopened. "This is--this is a full-time contract."

Selina beamed at him in honest delight. "Clark, how wonderful! Luthor knows talent when he sees it. He must have spotted that video of you on Youtube."

"I...suppose?" Clark frowned at the contract. "I think there must be some kind of mistake," he mumbled, then realized there was no way to explain why he thought that without admitting he'd been eavesdropping on the boss. "Maybe this was just a clerical error--"

The contract was plucked from his hands; Bruce cast a narrow-eyed gaze over it. "Luthor doesn't make clerical errors," he said. "Congratulations, Clark--you're in the big leagues now."

"I don't--this is--" Clark's eye fell on the salary numbers and his voice dried up. This would pay off the mortgage on the farm faster than he had ever dreamed. It was impossible. "I can't believe it," he whispered.

Selina threw her arms around him in a spontaneous hug that seemed to surprise her almost as much as him. "You deserve it, Clark," she said. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You're one of our most talented wrestlers, one of our hardest workers. This is going to be your chance to really fly, I know it."

Clark folded up the contract, his hands shaking slightly. There was only one question left now. He looked over at Bruce. "So...what are you going to do?" He waited for the answer, trying to look like it didn't make a huge difference, knowing it did. It would be crazy to throw away this opportunity, but the idea of not working with Bruce was shockingly painful to contemplate.

At last, Bruce opened up his own envelope and cast his eye over the piece of paper inside, refolding it after the most cursory of glances. Then he smiled, more to himself than at Clark. 

"It took some persuading, but it seems Luthor has met all of my stipulations," he said.


	13. You Sold Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word starts to get out about the JLI buyout, and the fans aren't happy.

_ They showered me with everything from full beers to deafening chants of "You sold out." That's a chant that has always disturbed me. I didn't buy it then, and I still don't. I mean, it's not as if these fans were taking up collections for ECW wrestlers' retirement funds or taking care of my mortgage. --Mick Foley _

"My last show in Gotham," Bruce murmured, looking out of Clark's hotel room at the skyline.

"The DCW does shows here," Clark said, "You'll be back."

"I suppose," Bruce said. "It's too bad the last show will be in Philly, but I guess I'm glad to get back here at all." He had been waiting outside Clark's room when Clark checked in, and now was sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the bed, his feet tucked up into an effortless lotus position. "How are your ribs?"

Clark tapped them gently. "They've been worse."

"I came here to ask you--we've got a lot of freedom in booking our last matches now, of course. So I was wondering..." Bruce looked away from him.

"It would mean a lot to me," Clark said. 

Bruce turned to look at him. 

"Um, I mean, you _are_ leading up to asking if I'd fight you next week in the last show, right?"

A curt nod. "I am."

"I'd love to."

"It was the best feud," Bruce said softly. "I hope we can do another angle together in the DCW someday."

Clark sat down next to him; the bed sagged alarmingly at their combined weight. "So let's put on a hell of a match and show Luthor what we can do together."

A quick smile. "I think we can do anything together." He held up his fist for Clark to bump.

"Then let's plan."

For the next two hours they blocked out their match--the banter beforehand, the moves within it. At some point Bruce grew restless and sprang off the bed to trace out the moves physically, his body flowing through the motions of the grapples and throws. "And then I'll put you in a sharpshooter, like this--" he announced, jumping onto the bed and standing over Clark, grabbing his legs and flipping him onto his stomach.

Clark found his face buried in the pillow with Bruce sitting on top of him, bending his legs back in a way that was supposed to look painful. "Argh," Clark said conversationally. "Oh dear, how will I ever break this agonizing hold?"

"Kent goes for the no-sell!" Bruce said in a fake-announcer voice. "The crowd goes wild! The Man of Steel is invincible!"

Clark twisted under him and broke the hold, and Bruce flopped on the bed next to him dramatically. At the impact, the bed made an anguished sound and they both went very still. 

Then Clark started giggling and couldn't seem to stop. Bruce joined in until they were both pummelling each other and demanding they stop it--which of course only would set one or both of them off again. 

"Oh God," wheezed Clark, "My ribs."

Bruce's laughter stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry," he said.

"That's okay," Clark said. "It was worth it. It felt good."

Bruce stared up at the ceiling for a while. "It did, didn't it?" he said.

**: : :**

Count Vertigo came bursting into the back room. "My God," he said, "Did you hear that?"

Clark looked up from his game of solitaire. "Hear what?" 

"The chant! During my match with Nemesis!" He turned on the monitor, where Big Barda was entering the ring. "Listen, they're doing it for her too!"

Distinctly, under the cheers of the crowd, Clark could hear people chanting: _"You sold out! You sold out!"_

Barda's jaw was set as she smiled at the audience, pretending not to hear the chant.

"The news has leaked somewhere," said Bruce. "They've gotten wind of the buyout."

"Damn smarks," groaned Vertigo. "They're going to make us suffer for going over to the competition. And damn those dirt sheets--someone ought to hunt that Perry White guy down and break his kneecaps."

"Don't worry," said Bruce. "Watch--they'll change their tune when the angle picks up."

Barda was in the middle of wrestling Bernadeth when the first run-in happened: a masked woman in black leaped over the barricades around the ring and kicked Barda when she was down. Security attempted to apprehend her, but she laughed and shoved one of them into the crowd, then fled through one of the fire doors. 

"See?" said Bruce. And he was right: the crowd noise had changed in intensity, shifting into a confused buzz. "Some of them recognized Lashina." He rubbed his hands together. "And we're just getting started."

The match between Booster Gold and Punch went uneventfully, but as the announcer was calling Mr. Miracle's name for the next match the auditorium erupted into chaos as a massive masked figure strode down through the audience, shoving anyone who got in his way. Climbing into the ring, he picked up the ring announcer and shook him like a rabbit, and the crowd noise shifted into a low roar: there was no mistaking the form of Darkseid, who had left for the DCW long ago.

Mr. Miracle charged into the ring, but the looming figure caught his throat in one massive fist, lifted him from the ground and slammed him against the mat: Darkseid's signature move, the Omega Slam. Clark could hear the commentators screaming, and the crowd was in total tumult as Darkseid turned and muscled his way out once more.

"What does this mean?" Glorious Godfrey, the heel announcer, was yelling into his mic. "Who is this dark and majestic presence who dominates the weak so effortlessly? Are we meant to follow him?"

"Are you _crazy_?" the color commentator, Snapper Carr, screamed back at him, straining to make himself heard over the crowd. "This is terrorism! This is an invasion!"

The audience was electric for the rest of the evening, torn between jeering smarks and mystified marks, both of them screaming at the top of their lungs. The spindly form of Desaad, masked and disguised, appeared from under the ring to interfere with Orion's match, and a black-clad form that could only be Queen Bee showed up to taunt Fire and Ice before being dragged out by security, yelling vague but ominous threats. The crowd was roiling at the sight of familiar despised wrestlers interfering with matches--what did it mean?

"Guess it's our turn," Guy said to Harvey. He turned to look at Lex Luthor, who was lounging in the Gorilla Position. "Make this good," he growled.

Luthor lifted both hands with a smirk. "I'm good at being bad," he said.

Guy rolled his eyes, finished tying his neon-yellow tassels off around his forearms, and strode out to meet the crowd.

Harvey had insisted that Two-Face not win clean over the Warrior, so after a pitched battle--Clark had never seen them fight so well together--Two-Face pulled off a complicated cheat involving a body double. In the confusion, he managed to pin the Warrior and the bell rang, declaring him the winner amid a hail of boos.

Two-Face brandished his belt defiantly at the crowd, ignoring the slumped form of the defeated Warrior in the middle of the ring. The crowd growled back at him in hatred, and slowly the chant coagulated once more: _"You sold out! You sold out!"_ The camera zoomed in on his face and Clark could see sweat running down his face, smudging his careful Two-Face makeup. There was an honest fury in his eyes. 

"I deserve this!" he yelled, shaking the belt at the booing crowd. "How dare you sit there and yell at me for making an honest living!" His music started to play, and he glared at the fans for a moment longer before turning his back on them and striding out of the auditorium, the belt slung over his shoulder.

The Warrior was left slumped in the ring, defeated and stripped of his title.

And then music started to play that had never been played in a JLI show before.

The crowd erupted into a confused roar--they all recognized the theme music of the leader of the competition--which transmuted into pure bile as Lex Luthor appeared on the balcony in an electric-purple suit and green tie.

"Good evening!" he called down to the crowd. "It's so _nice_ to see you all here in your quaint auditorium, cheering your dear hearts out. The little promotion that could, isn't that what you call yourselves? That's cute, that's really cute." At this point he had to stop for a moment, unable to make himself heard over the crowd. "Well, I've got a message for Max Lord and all his wrestlers: your time is coming to an end. That's right, I've bought you out, and my ownership of the company will go into formal effect next week at seven P.M." 

Clark heard Snapper Carr yell, "But that's an hour before our next show back in Philadelphia!"

"Oh, is it? How unfortunate for you. Or should I say how fortunate for the losers who watch your sad excuse for a wrestling show in Philly. They don't deserve anything better, but I'm doing them a favor by shutting you down," said Luthor. "This is it. _This_ is the last show. Next Tuesday, seven o'clock, is your Zero Hour, the end of the JLI's pitiful existence!"

Clark had to admit the gusto with which he delivered a melodramatic line like that was both impressive and rather chilling.

"The maniacal laugh at the end might be overdoing it a bit," Bruce noted. "But on the other hand, he does make it work. He might want to--"

"Shh." Booster elbowed him in the ribs. Behind Lex, the Warrior was rising slowly to his feet, swaying and staggering. "I want to see this."

Bruce's eyebrows rose, but he fell silent and watched the monitors with everyone else.

"Luthor," rasped the Warrior, enunciating each syllable of the name as if they burned his mouth, "You've forgotten one thing, Luthor!"

Luthor stared as the Warrior glared up at him, defiant.

"You've forgotten--that the JLI--never gives up!" The Warrior stabbed a finger up at Luthor to punctuate each phrase. "We're not gonna let you bring down the curtain on us or our fans! This may be a crisis--" Clark saw his face contort as Guy struggled to improvise something crazy enough for the Warrior, "--but it ain't our final crisis! And it ain't an infinite crisis! You may be a harbinger of doom, but you can't extinguish the sun that burns in all of us! We won't give into fear, no matter how dark the day or--or--or bright the night! So screw your Zero Hour, and screw you--we're gonna have that show in Philly no matter what, and you can't stop us! You can't erase us from history, Luthor! And someday--" The Warrior lowered his voice to a low growl; the auditorium went nearly silent to catch his every word. "--Someday I swear, the Zero Hour...will be _yours_."

The Warrior's music hit, and he dropped the mic and strode out, leaving Luthor standing with his mouth working impotently, glaring after him. The crowd frothed and roared, and a new chant slowly solidified, scattered at first and then growing stronger:

_"Screw you Lex! Screw you Lex!"_

Luthor's eyes darted around the hall as if making a mental enemies' list of every single JLI fan there; slowly he stalked out, hounded by triumphant catcalls.

Backstage, people were clapping Harvey Dent on the back with a strange mix of congratulations and consolation. "You're the real last JLI champion, Guy," he said, and handed him the belt.

Guy Gardner held it for a moment and a ragged cheer went around the room. Then he handed it back to Harvey with a wry grin. "It's funny, it don't bother me that much," he said. He raised his voice to address all the gathered wrestlers and crew: "Now we gotta get to work making our Zero Hour the best show ever!"

**: : :**

"Want a ride back to Philly?" 

Clark looked over to where Bruce was leaning against the brick wall outside the staff exit, twirling his keys on his finger.

"I've got a ride back with Booster and Beetle," said Clark. "So that would be a yes."

Bruce smirked. "This way to the Brucemobile."

"You don't really call it that, do you?"

"Too much? Do you think 'Waynemobile' would be better?"

"Not really, no."

They came around a corner, still bickering cheerfully, but Bruce stopped in mid-sentence as he looked toward his car. Then he turned to Clark with his fakest smile: "Kent, I'm begging you to take a look under my hood. I'm pretty sure I have a camshaft that needs oiling, and I do _so_ hate to get my hands dirty."

Clark managed to keep his eyebrows from rising just in time as he realized a fan was leaning against the side of Bruce's car, his hands stuffed in his pockets, glaring at them. "Look," Clark retorted, "I'd be happy to oil your camshaft, but--"

"--Mr. Wayne?" said the kid as they drew closer. He was in his mid-teens, maybe: a sullen, slouching boy with dark hair and a darker frown. "Billionaire Brucie?"

"The one and only," Bruce said breezily.

"I come to all the shows in Gotham."

Bruce nodded. "I've seen your face here and there," he said. 

"Is it--is it true? Is it the end of the JLI? Did Luthor really beat you?" The kid's fists were clenched and shaking.

Bruce grinned, wide and empty. "No one beats Billionaire Brucie, kid. You should see my shiny new contract!" He waved a hand to gesture the boy away from the car door. "Come on, it doesn't mean anything, you know?"

" _Stop it_." The boy looked up at Bruce and his eyes were raw with hurt. "That's it? He's just gonna win? And you're gonna stand there like it means _nothing_ to you?" His voice cracked and for an instant it was a child's voice, lost and lorn. Then he swallowed hard and got it back under control, back into fury. "Because I don't buy that bullshit for a moment! I _know_ it bothers you, I _know_ you care. _It means something!"_

Bruce looked down at the keys in his hand for a moment; Clark saw his shoulders settle somehow, his stance change subtly. He took a breath and looked back up at the boy. "You're right," he said. "It does mean something. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise." He put a hand on the kid's shoulder and looked him in the eye, and his voice was the deadly-serious one that Clark knew well, the one so few people got to hear. "No matter what, kid, I swear to you: _someday we will bring Luthor down."_

The boy stared at him for a moment, then threw his arms around him and hugged him tight. After a moment, Bruce returned the embrace, and they stood there in the alley together.

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," choked the kid. "Thank you." He stepped away from Bruce, dragging a sleeve across his face, and turned to go.

"Hey, kid," Bruce called as he walked away. The boy stopped and looked back, his tear-stained face pale in the dim alley light. "I hate to break it to you, but all the money in that wallet is fake."

"I--what?" 

Bruce reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his real wallet. "But I'll give you a twenty to get it back," he said.

A grudging smirk transformed the boy's face; he hoisted an identical wallet in his hand and came back to trade it for the crisp twenty. "I want to be a wrestler," he said. "Like you."

"Well," said Bruce, "You're fast, and you're smart, and you obviously know how to sell a gimmick. But I'm not a trainer. Be cool, stay in school and all that."

The boy's eyes flicked downward. "It wasn't just an act," he muttered. "I meant it, too."

"So did I," said Bruce. "Now shoo. And kid," he added as the boy turned to leave again. "A bit of advice if you really want to break into wrestling: don't steal from your fellow wrestlers." He grinned. "That's the promoter's job."

The kid smirked. "Yes sir!" He ran out of the alley and into the night.

"Good grief," sighed Bruce, looking after him. "Kids."

"You know," said Clark as he went to the passenger side door, "I'm beginning to suspect, Billionaire Brucie, that you _may_ not be an entirely bad person after all."

"Oh God," Bruce said, "Don't tell anyone." 

"It'll be our little secret."

Bruce looked down to open his door; his eyes narrowed and then he smiled in admiring disbelief at Clark.

"Can you believe it? I think that kid was trying to jack my tires!"


	14. Zero Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the JLI's last show, and Bruce and Clark's last match together before moving to the DCW.

_ It was a form of redemption through violence for me and for the fans. It is the best drug in the world, that rush from the fans. It is amazing. --Tommy Dreamer _

"Guy, we need to make _hundreds_ of posters," Tora said. 

Guy looked up from his pens with a glare. "I want to get it right."

"You've been working on that one for twenty minutes now!" Bea plucked it away from him, ignoring his protest. A painstakingly drawn and implausibly muscled Warrior, brandishing an equally implausible number of teeth, glowered out from under a "Zero Hour" graphic. "Maybe we should have taken Luthor up on his offer to mass-produce us some 'handmade' posters."

"No way," Bruce said without looking up from the poster he was working on. "They have to be authentic. JLI fans can smell insincerity a mile away."

"Well, this poster is authentically _awesome_ ," Guy said, handing it over reluctantly to Bea.

Clark added the final touches to his tenth poster and gave it to Bea in turn, shaking the cramp out of his fingers. "How are the message boards?"

"Still buzzing," Selina Kyle said from behind her laptop. "God, do these people _ever_ get tired of trying to guess what's real and what's fake about all this?"

"Let's hope not," said Bruce. He held up his own poster, in which the JLI logo was slowly being wiped out by a large purple eraser. "There we go."

"Good use of negative space," Clark said.

"Thank you kindly." Bruce grabbed a fresh piece of paper and got back to work.

They plastered the city with posters, they kept Twitter and the message boards humming with speculation, they got interviewed on every wrestling podcast and local radio station they had connections with. 

And when Zero Hour came, they were ready.

**: : :**

"Too bad we didn't fill the house like this _before_ we got bought out," Scott Free noted, peeking out at the stamping, chanting crowd. The Warrior was in the middle of the ring, delivering a _non-sequitur_ -laden rant about history being re-written ("like the white obliterating light as hot as a googleplex of stars!"). He challenged Two-Face to a rematch for the championship, and Two-Face showed up at the top of the ramp, smirking and preening with his belt.

"You know Mr. Luthor will never let this show finish," Two-Face sneered. "So sure, I'll accept your challenge. We'll even make it the main event. You'll never reach the end of the show, you big blowhard."

"We'll see what you say when destiny knocks on your head, Two-Face!" yelled the Warrior, and the last show of the JLI had begun.

The matches were mostly recaps of old, popular feuds or wrap-ups of current storylines. The crowd was hot, roaring and booing with every match, and there were no "You sold out" chants, to everyone's relief.

Finally, they reached the penultimate match, and Clark stood in the Gorilla Position, listening to Billionaire Brucie stand in the middle of the ring and implore Country Clark Kent to come out and wrestle him.

"I know I lost that I Quit match," Brucie said. "I know that means I can never ask you to wrestle me again. So I'm not asking, Kent. I'm just...standing here and hoping." 

He spread his hands out imploringly.

"I'm hoping any minute now I'll hear your music. I'm hoping you'll come down here and we'll wrestle one more time--not as enemies, but as equals. I'm hoping you're a good enough man--a better man than I am--to not hold a grudge."

There was a long, breathless pause as he stood alone in the ring, and Clark found himself jogging in place as the moment stretched excruciatingly. Would his music ever hit?

Finally Brucie dropped his hands to his sides, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I understand," he said. "But Kent, I just want you to know that I--"

And _finally_ Clark heard the strains of the generic banjo music that had been his opening theme for so long, and for the first time he found them welcome rather than annoying. The crowd screamed its approval as he jogged down the ramp, beaming and grinning and shaking hands, to join Brucie in the ring.

"One last match," he said. "For old times' sake."

And he held out his hand.

Brucie looked from his face to the outstretched hand, then back again. His eyes returned to Clark's hand and he bit his lip, his conflicting emotions playing across his face for all the audience to see. Would he be able to overcome his heel instincts and treat Country Clark as an equal?

Then he reached out and slowly, carefully clasped Clark's hand.

They stood in the ring for a moment hand in hand, Clark grinning, a slow smile dawning on Brucie's face in answer. Then Clark reached out and clapped him briefly on the shoulder (Brucie flinched slightly, then straightened again) and they moved to their separate corners while the crowd exploded with delight.

They pulled out every move they'd ever done: the hurricanrana, the shooting star press, the senton bomb. Brucie delivered a series of Kesagiri chops to his neck and followed up with a flying clothesline, and Clark had forgotten how wonderful it was to work with him, how the most painful-looking moves felt so gentle. He struggled to keep the smile from his face, to look fierce and focused, but eventually he gave up and just grinned through all their moves. Who cared if it was breaking kayfabe? He was having fun and he wanted everyone to share it tonight, this last night.

The match went on at a breakneck clip, no pauses, just one dizzying move after another until they were both exhausted, practically staggering on their feet. Finally, after a particularly brutal suplex, Brucie dragged himself to his knees, then faltered and dropped back down to his hands and knees. As Clark watched from the corner, he sat up, swaying with exhaustion, clearly unable to stand any more. 

He locked eyes with Country Clark, nodded in the exhausted recognition of an equal, and mouthed "Finish me," then bowed his head.

Clark paused for a long time, watching Brucie gasp for air as the crowd called their names. Then, almost as if reluctant, he stepped forward to deliver his spinning heel kick and knock Brucie to the mat as limp as a rag doll. Falling on his opponent as if he could barely stand any longer himself, he covered him for the pin, and the bell rang to declare him the winner.

"Listen," Bruce breathed in Clark's ear as they lay there. The crowd was chanting and clapping in a four-beat rhythm, over and over again: 

_"We will miss you! We will miss you!"_

The chant swelled until Clark couldn't hear Bruce's laughter at his ear, could only feel the staccato breaths against his skin. They lay together for a moment, letting the sound wash over them. Then Clark got to his feet--with a legitimate effort, it felt like his joints were made of rubber--and offered Bruce his hand.

Bruce took it and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Then they left the ring and walked up the ramp together. Clark waved to the delirious crowd; Bruce put his nose in the air and ignored them all.

But the crowd was cheering them both.

**: : :**

The last match of the evening: the Warrior and Two-Face. The Gorilla Position was crowded with wrestlers, current and former JLI, the latter getting ready to rush out and keep Guy from winning his title back. Someone had opened a few beers and they were getting passed around as everyone watched Guy and Harvey battle around the ring. Finally, the Warrior got Two-Face into a hold that made his face contort in agony as he clawed in vain to get to the ropes. Would the pain cause him to admit defeat and tap out? Would the Warrior gain his championship back, here at Zero Hour?

"That's our cue," Darkseid said, taking a last swig of beer and handing the bottle to Booster Gold. He looked at the crowd of wrestlers. "Good to work with you all again," he boomed in his terrifying bass voice.

Then he pulled on his mask and the other DCW heels were running down the ramp to attack the Warrior and prevent him from getting the win.

The Warrior leaped to his feet, his teeth bared in a grimace of defiance, as the massive masked form entered the ring. With a lunge, he leaped forward and grabbed the mask off to reveal--the leering face of Darkseid, his old nemesis! The Warrior staggered back in shock, disbelief vivid on his face, and the crowd was so caught up in the moment that they gasped too, despite the fact it had obviously been Darkseid all along.

The God of Evil lifted a hand as if to re-mask himself, then shrugged and grinned malice upon the Warrior as the other heels entered the ring and removed their own masks to stand with their Dark Lord. The former JLI heels--revealed as the turncoats and traitors the audience always knew they were--inched forward, drawing back in alarm when the Warrior lunged at one or another of them. But he was outnumbered and it would only be a matter of time.

And then Country Clark Kent, Mr. Miracle, and Billionaire Brucie all ran down the ramp together and laid into the DCW wrestlers.

Pandemonium broke out in the arena; Clark could hear people screaming and swearing, and a hail of drink cups rained down on the DCW villains as the rest of the JLI roster--heels and faces together--charged into the battle, in and around the ring. Clark ducked a poorly-thrown cup and found himself getting clotheslined by Darkseid. He went down in a heap, then struggled to his feet to find someone else to fight--in the chaos it was difficult to pull off any move more complicated than a few punches and throws, but no one seemed to care. It was a glorious free-for-all, a bench-clearing brawl, and the JLI was united for the first and last time as they waged a desperate, doomed battle against their own extinction. 

Selina leveled Queen Bee with a chair, then fell to Lashina's whip looped around her throat. Big Barda demolished Lashina with a suplex, then found herself back to back with Mr. Miracle in the middle of the ring. They turned to each other and kissed passionately for a long moment before rejoining the fray, to hoots and shrieks of approval. Clark saw a fan throw a popcorn box that hit Booster Gold in the back of the head as he balanced on the top ropes; thinking it was a punch, Booster sold the bump as if it were a hammer-blow, collapsing off the rope and onto the floor in truly theatrical fashion. The audience howled its joy: defeated by a popcorn box! Clark was one of the last to fall, but when three DCW heels teamed up to powerslam him he admitted defeat and lay in the corner of the ring, catching his breath.

One by one the wrestlers from both sides went down, felled by punches, kicks, chairs and throws to lie groaning and incapacitated on the ground. In the end, the Warrior faced down Darkseid alone, and with a mighty effort, hurled him over the ropes to his defeat. 

Guy Gardner stood alone in the ring, turning slowly to look out at the whole audience, his arms thrown out wide as if to absorb every cry from the crowd. "JLI!" he yelled, and the crowd picked it up, chanted it back at him until the air seemed to shake with it. Clark saw tears running down Guy's face unchecked as they called and stamped their feet, a torrent of adoration. When it seemed it couldn't get any more raucous, L. Ron came hurrying down the ramp, bearing Guy's old Green Lantern jacket. 

Guy stared as he handed it over, his face shocked: this wasn't part of the script. Then he slowly shrugged into it, squared his shoulders, and raised his fist in a salute to the audience.

Clark staggered to his feet with the other JLI members as the ecstatic roar poured endlessly over them. The DCW heels limped quietly out, unnoticed as the JLI stood together in the ring, beaming and waving, their arms around each other. Selina kissed Bruce on the cheek, then turned to Clark, who offered his cheek and was astonished to find himself kissed firmly on the lips. 

"You're cute when you blush!" Selina yelled into his ear, barely audible over the noise.

Guy picked up the mic and the audience subsided enough to listen to him. "Hey," he said, then stopped and scrubbed at his face. "Um, yeah. I speak for all of us when I say thanks. Thanks for everything. You guys are the best ever."

The crowd erupted once more; people started clambering over the barricades and pounding their hands on the ring to make it shake and boom. The security guards looked at Guy, but he just laughed. "Hell, let 'em come up!" he yelled. "This is their ring!"

The sound crew struck up his theme song at top volume and the fans crawled into the ring and started stomping, dancing, whooping. The ring sagged under the onslaught, then settled slowly to the ground with a final groan. Wrestlers grabbed at each other, laughing and dodging the dancing fans, and finally fled up the ramp, waving back to everyone one last time, leaving the fans to dance on the wreckage of the JLI.

Backstage, coolers of beer were opened up and everyone--heels and faces, JLI and DCW--sat around and drank and talked all night, sharing stories and bragging and insulting each other.

"This was the best night of my life," Guy said at one point, clinking beer bottles with Clark.

"I hope you have lots more like it," Clark said.

Guy shook his head. "This is once in a lifetime, man. I'm just glad I got it once."

Around two in the morning, Clark spotted Bruce sitting in a corner, nursing a beer and watching everyone. "Well," Clark said, sitting down next to him. "We did our best."

"Our best is pretty good," said Bruce.

"And now it's all over."

"Over? Oh, I wouldn't say that," Bruce said. "No, I wouldn't say that at all."


	15. Ambush in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark arrives in Metropolis, dodges a nosy reporter, gets introduced to some of the DCW's roster, and gets offered a place to crash for the night.

_ A funny side note is that Hawk came up with the Legion of Doom name while we were all sitting around watching TV one afternoon. This cartoon, Challenge of the Super Friends, came on and as the intro played and showed all of the bad guys led by Lex Luthor, a voice announced them as the Legion of Doom. _

_ “We’ve gotta use that,” Hawk said. _

_“Great idea, Hawk,” Paul said. “We’ll be the Legion of Doom and destroy everything." --Joe Laurinitis_

"Mr. Kent? Mr. Kent! Excuse me, you are Clark Kent, aren't you?"

Clark swung his bag off the baggage carousel and tried to dodge the woman, but she stepped into his path again.

"Lois Lane. I work for the _Wrestling Planet_."

"I'm...familiar with your work," Clark said politely.

Her quick smile didn't reach her eyes. "Is it true that you've signed a contract to work for Lex Luthor?"

"I really have no comment on that," Clark said, lifting his bag and starting to walk away.

"Then why are you in a Metropolis airport?" Lane persisted, following him. "The DCW is the only game in town here."

"I'm visiting a friend," Clark said. "Now please, if you'll excuse me..." He moved past her and hurried outside to the street.

A familiar black Lexus pulled up and Clark tossed his bag in the back and jumped in. "Good timing," he said to the driver.

Bruce was wearing a cap pulled down low over his eyes and a ratty sweatshirt. "Always," he said as they pulled away from the curb. "So did you get grilled by Mad Dog Lane?"

"You saw her?" Bruce lifted an eyebrow at him, zipping in and out of traffic: _Of course I saw her._ "Yeah, she caught me in baggage claim."

"Good."

"I hate being dishonest," Clark said.

Bruce slugged him on the shoulder. "I bet you didn't tell a single lie."

"I said I was in town to visit a friend."

"Well," Bruce said, "Here I am. You're visiting me." He grinned at Clark. "It's all part of the game, Clark. Folks from the _Planet_ try to guess what's going on in the industry, people like Luthor try to use that publicity to their own ends. When they publish that they spotted you in Metropolis, it'll get all the message boards buzzing." He glanced at his watch. "We've got some time before we're supposed to report to the arena; how about we grab some lunch and you tell me how your trip home went?"

They went through a Big Belly Burger drive-through and ate in a parking garage as Clark talked about his trip to Smallville. "It was good to have some time off, let the ribs heal. My parents were happy to see me, too." Clark started to unwrap a second hamburger. "They were sorry they didn't get a chance to meet you."

"I appreciated the invitation," Bruce said. "But I hadn't had much time at home for a while and I had some things I had to catch up on."

"Reports from the butler about the household expenses?" Clark asked with a smirk. "Or your gardener about the latest additions to the rose garden? Or--wait, I know--the chauffeur needed your approval for some upgrades to the Lamborghini."

Bruce laughed. "Not exactly. I mean, the rose garden is fine. The Zen rock garden, on the other hand..." He trailed off, chuckling. "Anyway, I don't get much time to spend with my--well, my foster-father, the man who raised me," he said. "It was good to see him again."

Clark didn't push, but filed that bit of information away. Bruce never spoke of his personal life. _Foster-father. Does that mean he was a street kid? Ward of the state?_ A lot of wrestlers came from backgrounds where wrestling was a way to break a cycle of abuse and poverty. That would explain his intensity and devotion to the business, his love of his gimmick: a chance to live a dream life, impersonating the rich kid whose name you happened to share.

But Clark had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Bruce Wayne truly was a man of mystery.

"Okay," said Bruce, polishing off his french fries and fastidiously collapsing all the waste into a neat package. "Time to report to our new workplace."

They slipped in through the back door, hiding their faces in case any fans were looking. Mercy Graves met them at the door and wordlessly showed them to the common room, milling with people both familiar and unknown. 

Clark looked around the room, swallowing hard and remembering how Guy had taken him under his wing and shown him around. No one seemed willing to do that here, and Guy was off in Japan, busting heads and making fans. As low man on the totem pole, it was Clark's responsibility to go up to each wrestler and introduce himself--as Bruce was doing now, shaking hands with a lanky man who Clark recognized as Jonathan Crane (AKA The Physician of Fear, the Scarecrow). Bruce shot Clark a quick look and raised an eyebrow, and Clark surreptitiously wiped his damp palms on his jeans and stepped up to the nearest person.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said. "I'm Clark Kent. You must be the Elongated Man."

The man turned with a smile. "The Man of Infinite Holds, or Ralph Dibny when I'm off-duty," he said, taking Clark's hand. "Nice to meet you."

After that it was easier. Clark shook hands with everyone there that evening, from the big stars like current title holder Hal Jordan and Oliver Queen down to the jobbers like Magpie and Ambush Bug, even the road crew. Only little flashes remained in his memory later: Diana Prince's strong handclasp and assessing look; commentator Jimmy Olsen stammering that he was a big fan; Billy Batson pretending they'd never met and trying to shake his hand hard enough to crush it; Pamela Isley tossing her red hair and feeling his biceps while mentioning how _impressive_ his Youtube video was.

"Hey Kent!" Bruce's voice pulled him away from small talk with a sandy-haired man who called himself Milton Fine, "The Modern Svengali." "Allow me to introduce you to--"

"--The Flying Graysons!" Clark knew he was beaming like an idiot as he hurried over and shook their hands, but he couldn't help it. "I've been your fan all my life. You were at the first show I ever attended. It was your debut," he said to Mary Grayson.

She smiled with delight. "I remember that show! Topeka, right?"

"You put Per Degaton in a headlock," Clark said, and she threw back her head and laughed.

"You see, Dick," she said to the teenaged boy standing slightly behind her, "Your mother was more than just window dressing once."

"That's not fair," the boy protested, and she rumpled his hair.

"My son is saying his parents should be thinking about retirement," Mary said. "Mr. Kent, this is Dick Grayson, the latest of a long line of Flying Graysons."

Dick Grayson shook his hand, beaming. "I was just telling Mr. Wayne I love the work you two have been doing," he said. "Those aerial moves are just fantastic. And I _didn't_ say you should retire," he added indignantly to his mother. "I just think you could cut back a little."

"And you'd like to step up more, I know," said his father. 

"I'm ready to wrestle," Dick said. "I've been your valet my whole life, I was performing before I could walk, Wildcat himself taught me how to take a bump when I was twelve, you _know_ I'm ready. I'm tired of always being outside the ring for other wrestlers to kidnap or brainwash or whatever crazy storyline is going on." He turned to Bruce, appealing. "Do you know what they call me in the locker room? The Boy Hostage."

"Well," said Mary as Clark and Bruce hid their smiles, "You'll always be the Boy Wonder to us."

"Are you done making your case?" said John Grayson. Dick nodded, hanging his head. "Because I talked to Mr. Luthor, and he agrees you're ready to step up and see some ring action."

"Whoo hoo!" yelled Dick, and did a sudden backflip as if he couldn't contain his delight. "Who do I get to be in an angle with--Killer Croc? Man-Bat? Scarecrow?"

His father laughed. "Dick, you're the youngest wrestler in the company. You'll be wrestling whoever needs a match that show, and you'll probably be losing all of them for a while."

"But losing with _style_ ," Dick crowed. "Oh man, I gotta get practicing. Mr. Wayne, can I show you my senton bomb sometime? Yours is gorgeous!"

Soon he and Bruce were deep in a conversation about rotation and lift as his parents watched fondly. "He's right," said his mother. "He's ready to step up." She gave her husband's arm a squeeze. "But I'm not ready to retire quite so soon," she said.

John kissed the top of her head. "The Flying Graysons aren't done yet," he said.

**: : :**

None of the JLI wrestlers were to appear on stage that night, so they all watched the monitor in the common room as a nervous Jimmy Olsen interviewed Lex Luthor and Darkseid in the center of the ring. "S--So, Mr. Luthor," he quavered, holding the mic up, "I hear you traveled to Philadelphia last week. How was your trip?"

Darkseid and Luthor laughed as though they were trying to outdo each other in some kind of malign-off. "Ah, Jimmy, my boy," said Luthor. "It was a great trip. Wasn't it, Darkseid?"

"Indeed," boomed Darkseid. "I also relished the opportunity to grind a pitiful promotion into dust beneath my heel, to hear their frantic mewling cries for mercy. But Darkseid knows no mercy!"

"Yes, it was a great success," said Luthor. "In fact, I think I can say--"

And then the lights went out and the arena was plunged into darkness.

Gasps rustled around the arena in the pitch-blackness, and there was a sound of muffled blows and thumps.

When the lights came back on, Darkseid and Luthor were lying sprawled in the ring, unconscious, while a baffled Jimmy Olsen looked around wildly.

Clark could hear confusion give way to delight as Luthor sat up groggily and a piece of cloth slid off his chest. Staggering to his feet, he clutched it in his hands, unfurling it to reveal--a JLI t-shirt.

Luthor glared out at the audience, pivoting on his heel to stare wildly at every corner of the arena. "Find who did this!" he howled, and Darkseid lumbered out of the ring to roam through the crowd, shoving and pushing gleeful fans. 

"JLI!" cried a lone voice from the stands. Another joined in, and then another, and soon a ragged chant was echoing around the arena, taunting the wild-eyed Luthor. Wherever Darkseid roamed, the chanters always seemed to be just out of reach.

"Don't you get it, you losers? I won!" cried Luthor, and he seized the shirt and ripped it, tearing the logo in two. "I defeated them!" He threw the shirt out into the crowd and stalked back up the ramp, throwing looks of fury in every direction. He turned at the top of the ramp and gestured to the cameras. "That's it!" he yelled. "Cut the cameras! We're done!"

And the show came to an abrupt end.

"Nice touch," Bruce said to Luthor backstage as he polished off a bottle of Evian water, "Planting someone to start those JLI chants."

Luthor's eyes narrowed and he tossed the empty bottle to Mercy, who caught it out of the air without looking up from her phone. "I didn't plant anyone," he said. "I didn't need to. Totally predictable. Every smark desperately wants to mark out for someone."

Bruce's eyebrows rose.

"Your little promotion had its fans," Luthor said. "That's the point of all of this, after all. I don't care what they chant, as long as they're buying tickets to _my_ show now." He picked up the ripped JLI shirt from a table and tossed it at Bruce. "I'm going to make more money off of JLI shirts than the JLI ever did."

Bruce folded the shirt, putting the torn edges together, and put it back down. "Let's hope so," he said.

Luthor gave him a long look, then turned to address the room. "That's the beginning of the counter-invasion, folks," he said. "Next show we take it to the next level."

"I'm looking forward to doing more than hanging around backstage," Clark grumbled to Bruce as the wrestlers trickled from the room.

They walked together back toward Bruce's car. "Luthor's right, though," Bruce said. "You have to pace it. Build tension. Get the crowd worked up."

"Speaking of which," Clark said, "Did _you_ plant people in the crowd to start those JLI chants?"

Bruce stopped in the middle of opening his car door and gave Clark a wide-eyed look. "Clark Kent! Do you really think I'd do something that manipulative?"

"I'm beginning to suspect so," Clark said.

Bruce started the car and hummed a little under his breath, sounding pleased. Then he shook his head. "The truth is, I didn't," he said, a look of something like relief on his face. "I wasn't sure if maybe the JLI fans just wouldn't come, and nothing's lonelier than a single person chanting." He put the car into gear and moved out into the late-night Metropolis traffic. Lights flickered across the windshield and touched his face with color. "So where are you staying?"

Clark stretched and yawned. "God, I don't know. Just drop me off at a cheap hotel somewhere."

"Clark, you have to plan ahead. You can't just wing it all the time."

"Plans are overrated," Clark said. "I never planned on getting a permanent contract with the DCW, and here I am."

"Exactly," Bruce said with emphasis. "Look, I've got a place here in Metropolis."

"For nights you don't have the energy to drive back to stately Wayne Manor?"

"Exactly," said Bruce, deadpan. "You can crash there tonight if you like."

"Really? Sure, that'd be great." To be honest, Clark was more excited at the idea of seeing someplace Bruce called home than at not spending the night in a hotel. How would Bruce decorate an apartment? Would he have a place that matched his gimmick, some penthouse on the top floor? Would it be cluttered or elegant or cozy? 

As it turned out, it was none of these things. It was instead an entirely bland set of beige boxes in a building of middling price, with no decorations on the walls, no photos, and only the most functional and Spartan of furniture. It revealed nothing about Bruce at all.

Which was, Clark reflected as he looked at the utterly utilitarian, impersonal surroundings, ironically revealing.

"How homey," he said, dropping his gym bag on the floor.

"There's no need to be snarky," Bruce said. "It keeps out the rain and gives me a place to sleep, I don't need it to be anything else. I prefer to spend my hard-earned cash on things that further the gimmick--cars, suits, public stuff." He tossed a blanket at Clark and peeled his sweatshirt off, heading toward the bedroom. "Get some sleep."

The door closed behind him.

Clark changed into his pajamas and washed his face--even the bathroom had no personality, it was stocked with soap and shampoo from hotel samples, with scratchy white towels hanging limply from the holders. The whole place felt temporary, transient, ephemeral: the living quarters of a man with no ties and no joy beyond wrestling. There was a certain purity to it, Clark thought, but somehow it made him sad.

The couch was hard, but long enough for his long frame, which was rare in a sofa. Clark drifted off to sleep thinking that if he ever found out when Bruce's birthday was, he'd have to give him some art to break up the monotony of those depressing blank walls.


	16. Dirt Sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road once more, the former members of the JLI get new costumes and theme music and meet a wrestler with a problem.

_ Everyone fights for The Observer just to see if they’re in it. Sometimes you’re in it and sometimes you’re not. Sometimes you like what he writes and sometimes you don’t. But I think wrestlers realize it’s good to have someone speaking for you. --Bret Hart on "The Wrestling Observer," wrestling's pre-eminent dirt sheet _

Clark stared as the tour bus door swung open and Selina peeked out of it and announced "Come on in, boys!"

"We get our own bus?" Clark went up the steps and peered in at the plush seats. Harvey Dent was already asleep in the back, while Scott and Barda Free were lost in conversation; they waved briefly to him and then went back to discussing suplex techniques.

"We can't travel on one of the official DCW buses yet," Bruce said from behind him. "So we get our own."

"Pretty posh," said Clark.

"Posh?" Selina made a scoffing sound. "Jordan flies first class to every venue. Now _that's_ posh." She bounced on one of the cushioned seats. "I'm not complaining, though," she grinned.

Clark wasn't either, after the long days spent criss-crossing the Eastern seaboard in a beat-up car. He sat down, and Bruce took the seat across the aisle from him. The doors swung shut. 

"Richmond, here we come," said Selina.

**: : :**

Clark woke from a light doze to the sound of Bruce and Harvey arguing vehemently about some esoteric point of ring psychology as they pulled into the back lot of the Richmond Convention Center. "Geez, give it a rest," grumbled Barda, pushing between them.

Inside, everything was a hum and bustle of activity. Mercy Graves met them at the door, a sheaf of papers in her hand. "Your schedule," she said without preamble, handing a piece of paper to each of them.

"Schedule?" Clark blinked down at the piece of paper, which had a precise timetable on it.

"Your first appointment is with music in ten minutes," she said. "Down the hall, left, right, third door on the right." She made a shooing motion with her free hand. "Go."

"Bit different from the JLI," Scott said, his eyebrows raised.

"Music?" said Clark.

"We each need a theme song," Selina said as they headed down the corridors. "They've got a contracted composer for that."

"You're kidding," Clark said, and Selina shrugged. 

"Welcome to the big times."

The door opened to reveal a lanky young man with long strawberry-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing an improbable bottle-green suit and chewing on a pen as he stared down at a piece of sheet music. "You must be the new kids," he said, standing up and holding out his hand. There was a smudge of ink on his bottom lip. "Rathaway. Hartley Rathaway. Pleasure to meet you. Let's get to work." He flipped open his laptop and cracked his knuckles with a flourish. "New theme songs coming up." A quick glance at his notes and he looked at Clark. "So you're a hayseed face type?"

Clark winced. "Can we not use banjos?"

"Hayseed with no banjos, I dunno," Rathaway mused. "Doesn't seem natural. Can we compromise with fiddles and a jug band?" He tapped his keyboard and a cascade of wheeling strings and low-pitched tooting noises tumbled out. "Something loosely based on 'Turkey in the Straw'?"

Clark sighed and bowed to the inevitable. "I suppose electric guitars don't exactly fit." 

Rathaway waved a hand in the air as he clicked around, and the sounds coalesced into something close to music. "Not a final version, of course. That'll take a week or two. Who's next, the billionaire?"

Bruce lifted his chin. "Yes?"

"Old money or new?"

"Old," said Bruce. "Quite, quite old."

Rathaway whistled under his breath, staring at his screen. "So you want something that sounds like you could play polo to it. Filthy rich and unashamed. Harpsichord?"

"Sounds divine," drawled Bruce, and Rathaway grinned. 

"Easy peasy, I'll rip off some Scarlatti, maybe add just a bit of a techno beat in the middle to give it edge, and there you go!"

Everyone ended up happy with (or in Clark's case, resigned to) their new music: slinky saxophones and a go-go beat for Selina; straight-ahead power metal in complementary keys for Barda and Scott; and a weird battle between two electronic voices (demonic and angelic) for Harvey. 

Rathaway glanced at their schedule as he worked on "Two-Face's Theme." "Costuming is next," he said, pointing toward the door. "Left, right, left, left."

"Everyone seems to know where everything is around here," Clark grumbled as they were shooed down the hall once more, dodging a cart full of lighting equipment. "I'm definitely going to run into something."

"You have to float like a butterfly," Bruce said, demonstrating by skipping sideways a step. "And sting like a--"

As they came around the corner, he collided with someone coming the other way.

"Ow," said Bruce, "Sorry."

The collidee, a skinny man with a tousled mop of dark curls perched upon a long, narrow face, stared at Bruce and then groaned. "It would have to be _you_ ," he muttered. "Of all the people to smack into, I'd choose the one who's costing me my gimmick. Just my luck."

"I'm--sorry?" Bruce looked taken aback at the man's vehemence. "Have we even met?" Barda gave him an impatient look, and he waved her on. "Go on without me, I'll catch up," he said. 

Selina, Scott, Barda and Harvey moved down the hall, but Clark didn't leave Bruce's side. "Have you got a problem with Mr. Wayne?" he asked, crossing his arms, and Bruce shot him an exasperated look: _I can take care of myself._

"It's nothing personal," said the man, running a hand through his curls and deranging them even further. "It's just Luthor's told me that with Billionaire Brucie on board, they don't need two comedy vanity heels. I _told_ him that my gimmick's totally different--I'm a gangster, not a blueblood, it's a totally different style!"

Privately, Clark thought he'd met few people who made a less convincing gangster than the lanky, twitchy man, but he kept his mouth shut.

"I could change my gimmick," Bruce said. "I've been thinking about one based on something a little unusual, a theme of--"

"--No, no." The man looked uneasy. "I don't want Luthor hearing I'd complained to you. I can't--I'm just lucky to have work at all, really. I mean, my wife's going to have a baby soon, I can't afford to rock the boat. It's just..." He sighed. "Luthor doesn't really like comedy acts very much, he prefers his wrestlers--you know--buff and shiny, not--" He gestured down at his long, lean frame. "But I really think I have what it takes as a comedy heel if he'd just give me a push," he said. "Gentleman Jack's just starting to get over!"

"You're Gentleman Jack Napier?" Bruce narrowed his eyes and stared at him.

The man threw out his narrow chest. "Slap a fedora on me and I'm the smoothest--and funniest--criminal on the DCW roster!" He grinned slyly at Bruce. "You didn't recognize me, did you?"

Bruce shook his head slowly, then stuck out his hand. "Bruce Wayne. This is Clark Kent." Napier shook his hand as well, his long fingers wrapping around Clark's hand. "Good to meet you. You're a good actor."

Napier released Clark's hand and bowed deeply, his curly hair brushing the floor. "My thanks, kind usurper! But I jest," he said cheerfully as he straightened up again. "Don't take me seriously. I'm sure I'll land on my feet no matter what Luthor does with me from now. Fare thee well, my friends!" he announced, and wandered off whistling.

"If he's such a good actor, why is Luthor changing his gimmick?" Clark asked as they continued down the hall.

"Oh, he's a very good actor," said Bruce slowly. "And as a wrestler he's very innovative--he comes up with all kinds of crazy moves and makes them work. But--" He broke off, grimacing. "I've seen him perform, and he's not the least bit funny at all."

**: : :**

Clark had expected someone a little more dramatic as the DCW costume designer, but Paul Gambi was a stolid, heavyset man with graying temples and squinting eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. "You're late," he said as Clark and Bruce came through the door. "We started without you."

"They're not going to change our costumes much," Scott said. "He suggested something with more skin for Barda, but..."

"...I convinced him otherwise," Barda said, smacking her fist into the palm of her other hand with some relish.

"Barda honey, someday you're going to learn that threatening to punch things doesn't solve _every_ problem," said Selina.

"Only the problems worth solving," Barda said with a grin.

Gambi tapped the paper with a sketch of Selina in a purple dress and a green cape. "Back to business. So this one's no good?"

Selina grimaced. "It looks like what I started out in. No skirts, please." The next one had more leather, and she made a happy purring sound. "I was thinking about stealing a page from Harvey's book and playing a meek little secretary who has a second personality as a cat-themed dominatrix. What, it worked fine for you!" she snapped at Harvey's eyeroll. She turned back to Gambi. "Can you make it look more like something I pieced together from scraps of leather, something makeshift?"

Gambi looked thoughtful. "I can do that." He looked at her. "I'd go blond for that gimmick," he said. "Your natural hair looks too dangerous, too _femme fatale_."

Selina tossed her dark locks and smirked. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

After brainstorming more ideas for Selina, Gambi turned to Harvey. Unfortunately, Harvey turned out to have _very_ particular ideas about costuming, and it began to seem likely his wrangling with Gambi was going to go on for some time. Bored, Clark found himself wandering among the racks of costumes like a maze, running his hands across the leather and lamé, admiring the jewel-bright tones and lush textures. 

He pushed aside two sparkling costumes and found himself face to face with Dick Grayson.

"Oh!" Dick looked startled, then composed himself. "I was just, um, thinking about a possible new costume for my wrestling debut. Luthor said I could adapt my Flying Graysons costume to be a little more individual." He held up a piece of sequined green fabric. "What do you think?"

"Striking," said Clark, keeping his voice neutral.

"I know, right?" Dick beamed at the piece of fabric before putting it back with a sigh. "I'll always be a Grayson, but I want to be my own person, too. It's kind of tough, coming from a wrestling family, you know?"

"I can imagine, at least."

"I know it's a weird life for a kid, always traveling around, never staying in one place. But it's an amazing life, too." Dick ran his hand across the hangers of cloth, a dreamy look in his eyes.

"Your turn, Clark." 

Dick jumped as Bruce came around the corner of a rack of clothes. "Mr. Wayne! Can--can I get your opinion about costumes?"

Clark could hear Dick describing his ideal costume to Bruce as he went back to talk to Gambi. It turned out to be an easy process: no overalls (thank God), and his singlet was replaced with jeans and a flannel shirt.

"Can the shirt be red and blue?" Clark asked, remembering various crude sketches done years ago by a boy in Kansas.

Gambi looked nearly depressed that so little was being asked of him. "I suppose," he sighed.

"--But Mr. Wayne!" Dick Grayson's querulous voice preceded him, "I don't see how just a _few_ feathers would hurt. I mean, I've seen you come out in a huge feathered cape!"

"I'm a vanity heel, kid," said Bruce. "The sparkles and spangles and frippery are part of the act. You're a babyface, you can't go overboard."

"Watch me," muttered Dick, dropping a roll of scarlet cloth on Gambi's table. Gambi perked up visibly and began peppering him with questions.

"What a kid," sighed Bruce as they left the room. "Great ring instincts, more natural skill than most wrestlers could ever dream of having, but terrible fashion sense. You can bet if I didn't have this billionaire gimmick I'd be dressing in nothing but black."

"That would be a shame," Clark said. "Feathers suit you so well."

Bruce stopped in the middle of opening the common room door and gave him a glare that would probably have stopped other men in their tracks, but Clark just snickered as he pulled out his laptop and settled down on a ratty chair. He had barely opened his browser, however, when Lex Luthor swept into the room, followed by Mercy Graves and Jimmy Olsen, who was carrying three boxes so large only a shock of red hair appeared above them as he staggered along.

"New shirts!" crowed Oliver Queen, rubbing his hands together and joining the crowd gathering around the boxes.

Wielding a boxcutter with terrifying efficiency, Mercy opened the boxes to reveal heaps of brightly-colored cloth. Luthor tossed a bright green shirt to Queen, who spread it across his chest to reveal Green Arrow and Green Lantern posed dramatically, brandishing their fists. "Looking forward to seeing lots of green in the audience," he said with a smirk.

"We've also got the new 'Theory of Fear' shirts for Crane, and Wonder Woman's new shirt," Luthor said, extracting them.

Diana Prince caught the shirt out of the air with a finger and thumb and gazed upon it as if looking at a venomous insect. "Pink," she said. "Of course." She opened it up, her lip curled. "I still do not like this sparkly tiara logo."

"But you're an Amazon _princess_ ," said Luthor. "Come on, you don't want to reach out to girl fans?"

"I think there are ways that do not involve making them look like frosted cupcakes," Diana said.

"And I will make sure to test your ideas with focus groups," Luthor said cheerfully. "As I always do. And then we have the new JLI shirt," he said as Diana deposited her hot-pink shirt back in the box. He pulled out a black shirt with what looked like a spray-painted red "JLI" scrawled across it. "These'll go on sale tonight--right alongside the Wonder Woman shirts in the merchandise booths." He raised his eyebrows at the JLI wrestlers. "What do you think?"

Scott Free was nodding appreciatively, and Clark had to admit the logo looked great, but Bruce shook his head. "That's stupid."

Luthor's grin switched to a glower with no transition. "What?"

"Luthor, the storyline is we _don't work for you,_ " Bruce said. "We're rebel upstarts invading your promotion. How are we going to maintain that suspension of disbelief if you're selling our merch right alongside these pink monstrosities?"

"Fine," snarled Luthor. "You'd like me to box these up and not sell them until you _officially_ sign with my promotion, at which point your angle will be over and they'll be out of date?"

"No," said Bruce, "I'd like you to give us the boxes and we'll sell them outside after the match from the back of a truck, as if we were trying to undermine your merchandising tables."

"That's--" Luthor closed his mouth. "You're right," he said ungraciously. "Jimmy, make sure they get their boxes of shirts right after the show."

"Yes sir," said Jimmy.

"And find them a beat-up truck they can use."

"Yes sir."

"And find the camera crew to shoot their fake security footage," Luthor said, turning his back on the wrestlers and walking off.

"Yes sir," repeated Jimmy, looking rather harassed.

Clark sat down again and opened up his computer. "Is he right about the pink shirts?" he asked Bruce, who had dropped and started doing push ups. "It seems limiting."

Bruce's face appeared in his field of vision, looking thoughtful, then disappeared again. "He's right in the short run," he said. "I'm sure merch for the female wrestlers sells better when it's all pink and sparkly. Focus groups of consumers will probably confirm that. Practical decision."

"But?" Clark prompted him, hearing the sentence's open ending.

"But," agreed Bruce, and Clark caught a glimpse of his scowling face. "But I think it would be wisest to look at the long run and start targeting female fans as _fans_ , not as _female._ Women like Wonder Woman not just because she has a tiara and is a princess, it's because she can _kick a guy's ass_ while wearing a tiara and being a princess." He started clapping his hands between each push-up, his biceps straining against the cotton shirt. "But Luthor didn't get where he is by ignoring short-term profits for the long view, I guess."

"Well, when we have our own promotion we'll do everything right," Clark said, laughing.

Bruce collapsed to the floor and rolled over on his back, looking up at Clark. "We will," he said. Then he sat up as Clark looked at a web page and groaned. "What is it?"

Clark swiveled the computer so he could see the web page. _Clark Kent spotted in Metropolis_ , the headline across the top of the _Wrestling Planet_ page ran. _Several wrestlers from the now-defunct JLI promotion were seen in Metropolis last week, including Selina Kyle and Clark Kent, fueling rumors that Luthor's "shutdown" of the rival JLI may have led to the acquisition of several of its top wrestlers. Will the new wrestlers be renamed and repackaged? Billionaire Brucie still seems to have a lot of untapped possibilities, and no one ever went broke underestimating the appetite of a wrestling audience for women in leather, so I'd expect the Catwoman gimmick is here to stay. However, Kent is wasted as a bumpkin babyface. He's got a lot more potential than that, as recent Youtube videos of him (links below) have shown._

_Intriguingly, Kent was picked up at the airport by "Billionaire" Bruce Wayne, slumming it in a baseball cap and sweatshirt. Do they get along backstage, or is this part of an upcoming angle?_

"Oh God, she recognized you." Clark stared at his laptop as the other wrestlers milled around them.

"Good," said Bruce. "What?" he added at Clark's expression. "Having you show up at the airport was too obvious to even be news. Give her someone in disguise that she can ferret out and that's a scoop. The smarks will eat this up."

"Excuse me?" Jimmy Olsen cleared his throat, hesitant to interrupt. "We need to shoot that security camera footage for tonight, if you're ready." He glanced over at Clark's laptop and frowned. "Don't let Luthor catch you reading the _Planet._ He hates dirt sheets, and that one's the worst."

"It's true," Bruce said as Jimmy hurried away. He reached over and tapped the screen, pointing to a link on the sidebar: _Sinestro demands better contract from Luthor._ "That was a closed-door meeting, no one should have known about that. Luthor's sure there are leaks inside the DCW."

"Are there?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow at his expression. "Don't overestimate my guile, Clark. I've only been working here a couple of weeks, I don't have access to that kind of information." He gave the browser a speculative look. "I'd like to know who the leak was, though."

"And you think you can find out?"

Bruce reached over, brushed Clark's hand away from the mouse, and closed the browser. "Don't _underestimate_ my guile either." He pulled the laptop cover down. "Now we'd better get ready to shoot our 'security camera footage,'" he said, making air quotes around the words. "Are you ready to be a shady character, skulking in the shadows and planning mayhem?" He looked at Clark's face. "It might be a bit of a stretch for you, Clark."

Clark punched him in the shoulder. "I can skulk," he said indignantly.

"I bet you a pizza that you're the worst skulker in our little JLI gang."

"You're on."

Two hours later, Clark owed everyone a pizza--upon review of the video, he had been forced to admit that when Big Barda skulked better than you did, you were a pathetic skulker indeed--but the footage was ready to go for the night's program. 

The next stage of the counter-invasion was about to begin.


	17. The Natural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the JLI's "invasion" of the DCW continues, Dick Grayson makes his move to become a full-time wrestler.

_ I understood for the first time the creativity and the drama required to be a great worker: the art of making it all seem real and telling a story using my body. I would show them all... --Bret Hart _

"I want security camera footage! I want to know who assaulted me last Monday, and I want them to _pay._ Otis, get me the footage from the Metropolis arena and get it _now_."

"Yes sir, Mr. Luthor sir!" Otis stumbled out of the office, to the laughter of the crowd in the arena watching the scene play out on the Jumbotron, and Lex Luthor drummed his fingers on his desk as the camera cut to commercial.

The first match of the night--Flash versus the Pied Piper--went smoothly enough, and was followed by another in-ring interview between Jimmy Olsen and Lex Luthor, this one about the "vicious and unprovoked attack on my person," as Luthor intoned.

"So," said Jimmy, "Who do you think--"

"--Well, I have my suspicions," said Luthor. "But so far I don't have any proof of--"

"Mr. Luthor, Mr. Luthor!" Otis hurried down the ramp, waving his arms. "We found the culprits! On the security tape!"

Luthor beamed. "Good job, Otis. Remind me to double your bonus."

"I don't get a bonus, Mr. Luthor."

"Right," said Luthor. "Put it onscreen. I want everyone to see the kind of unscrupulous thugs we're dealing with."

The Jumbotron sprang to life with grainy black and white footage, apparently of an emergency fire door. Five figures--three men and two women--wearing identical black baseball caps pulled down to hide their faces slipped into the hall, looking surreptitiously around. The first figure--clearly the leader--beckoned to the others to follow him, and they skulked down the hall and out of range of the camera. (Or rather, four of them skulked and one of them did his best). But before they did, the camera got a good look at the intruders--and their shirts etched with the spray-painted JLI logo.

The crowd's murmurs swelled into an excited rustle as the footage paused on the screen and Jimmy Olsen held the mic up to Luthor's face once more. "So, do you think--excuse me, Mr. Luthor, do you think--"

Lex Luthor was ignoring Olsen, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the front row.

And the five people sitting in the audience there, who had just removed their jackets to reveal their JLI shirts.

**: : :**

Selina nudged Clark in the ribs. "Grin," she hissed, and Clark smiled up at Luthor with the four other JLI wrestlers as the cameras picked them out of the crowd and put them on the Jumbotron. The murmur of the audience picked up into a sharp buzz as the camera panned along their faces: Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle, Clark Kent, Scott Free, and Barda Free, all sitting in the front row in their JLI shirts, their arms crossed.

"What are you doing here?" Luthor yelled. "Otis, throw those hoodlums out of my show."

Otis stumbled out of the ring and started to approach them, but Bruce brandished tickets to the event in his face. "Do you often call your _paying customers_ hoodlums?" he called up to Luthor, his voice conveniently picked up by Otis's lapel mic. "We don't need to sneak around anywhere. I just decided to come by with some of my friends and watch your oh-so-very entertaining show."

Otis shrugged and looked up at Luthor, who composed his face with an effort. "I'm _so_ glad you're enjoying it," he purred. "Maybe you'll have a chance to learn what a _real_ wrestling promotion looks like."

"Oh, I'm having Kent take careful notes," Bruce called back. Clark looked confused and frowned down at his crossed arms, and a rustle of laughter went around the auditorium.

Luthor looked up at the footage from the security camera, then back down at the five JLI wrestlers in baffled fury. "You'll regret this," he said.

"Regret paying to see your show?" Barda threw her head back and laughed. "We're already doing that."

Luthor stormed out with Otis in his wake, leaving a confused Jimmy Olsen in the ring to shrug at the audience before also leaving. The crowd fizzed and buzzed until the familiar notes of the Flying Graysons theme rang out and the spotlight lit up the center of the ring with its brilliant glare.

He'd seen the entrance a thousand times on television, but Clark still caught his breath as John and Mary Grayson descended from the rafters, their white capes swirling around them like wings. They touched down lightly in the ring, acknowledging the applause of the crowd before preparing to face John's opponent, Killer Croc. When Croc appeared at the top of the ramp, dragging a rumpled Dick Grayson with him, the crowd groaned and tittered simultaneously. "Again?" someone catcalled. 

Clark saw annoyance flicker across Dick's features, and under cover of struggling, he said something under his breath to Croc. Then he dodged from Croc's grip and tossed him into a picture-perfect rolling release suplex, ending with a backflip to land on his feet as Croc sprawled on his back.

The crowd went silent for a moment, then erupted in cheers as Dick grinned and bowed. Clark heard a shrill whistle of approval from nearby and realized it was Bruce. Indeed, none of the JLI wrestlers could maintain their stolid facades at the thrilled look on Dick's face and were applauding wildly as well.

Up in the ring, John and Mary's looks of surprise gave way to smiling admiration at their boy. Then Mary's fond look switched to horror as she pointed behind Dick, where Killer Croc was staggering to his feet. The crowd screamed a warning, but Dick was too caught up in the moment to notice the looming threat, and soon he was knocked out once more and dragged to the ring by Croc to display as a trophy to a furious John Grayson.

As he was dragged past the JLI wrestlers in the front row, though, Clark could have sworn he winked at Bruce before going back to dazed confusion.

Clark shot a look at Bruce, who smiled innocently at him. "I might have given him some tips," Bruce said under cover of the crowd noise. "Not that he needs them, really."

The next two matches went off without incident, although the camera kept straying to the five rogue wrestlers in the front row and the commentators kept discussing the meaning of it all. Clark hoped Red Tornado wasn't getting annoyed that attention kept focusing on them rather than his match with Metallo, but there was nothing they could do about that.

Then came the match between Green Lantern and Sinestro. The crowd was hot--Hal Jordan was extremely over with the fans right now--and the volume increased to almost deafening levels as the two old foes took the fight out of the ring, battling up the ramp and then back down toward the ring. As the fight drew near their side of the crowd, Clark, Scott and Barda began to heckle Sinestro, who gave them an annoyed look as he dodged a clothesline from Green Lantern. Reversing the move, he tossed Green Lantern up against the barricade. Jordan sagged against the metal barricade, seemingly stunned.

And Billionaire Brucie produced a chair and whacked him on the back with it.

The _thwack_ seemed to cut through the roar of the crowd like a laser; Green Lantern staggered under the impact. As he reeled, Brucie handed the chair casually to Selina, who handed it on to Clark, who took it reflexively.

When Green Lantern turned, furious, Brucie pointed to Country Clark, still holding the chair.

Clark dropped the chair with a clatter and a betrayed look at Brucie, but it was too late--Green Lantern had grabbed him by the shirt and was trying to drag him over the barricade. Scott Free and Barda shoved him away, and the wrestlers stared angrily at each other--at least until Sinestro took advantage of the distraction to grab his own chair and start battering the hapless Emerald Gladiator.

"That's a little payback for the _real_ Green Lantern!" Selina yelled as the fight raged, and a delighted gasp scurried around the audience. 

Then security started bearing down on them, and Brucie said, "I think it's time for us to make an expedited retreat. Scatter!" The five wrestlers took off through the crowd to shrieks of glee from the audience; Clark felt hands patting his back, slapping his shoulder as he ran up the aisle toward the exit.

The reverse invasion had started in earnest.

 **: : :**

Outside the arena, Bruce was standing on top of a rusty old car, waving a JLI t-shirt like a banner. "Come and get 'em, official merchandise of the downtrodden and oppressed!"

Clark struggled to collect the wads of wrinkled bills being thrust at him, doling out shirts as fast as he could to what seemed like hundreds of grasping hands.

"Show Luthor you stand up for the little guy! Buy the shirts they wouldn't allow into the arena! Let's see a sea of black and red at the next show!" Bruce exhorted the crowd, and they shrieked and pushed closer.

Clark sighed and handed over a shirt to a woman who hugged it to her chest like a holy relic. He already know how his conversation with Bruce was going to unfold later: he would point out that it seemed unfair to claim the t-shirts were a sign of rebellion against the DCW when the money went _to_ the DCW. And Bruce would raise his eyebrows in That Way and say "But we're not selling them t-shirts, Clark, we're selling them a fantasy of rebellion. We're letting them be part of a sweeping revenge narrative, a titanic battle between good and evil, for a mere twenty bucks. A bargain at twice the price, I'd say." And Clark would have to admit that the ecstatic reaction to the shirts was to much more than a piece of cloth, and Bruce would laugh and say "We are the sellers of dreams, Clark. Each of those people owns a little piece of your pure and gallant soul." 

From atop the car, Bruce looked down at his expression and gave him That Look, the one that said _Yes, I know you're having your doubts about this, and you know what I'd argue back._

Clark was beginning to suspect he and Bruce knew each other too well, if they could have entire hypothetical arguments without words.

The boxes empty, the JLI slipped backstage to collect their belongings and call it a night. In the common room, Waylon Jones was bragging about his performance. "And the kid said--check this out, the kid said, 'I'm gonna suplex ya, Mr. Jones. That okay?' And I was like, 'Hell yeah, kid, suplex the shit outta me!' Ain't that awesome?" He beamed at all and sundry. "Who's got two thumbs and is the first wrestler to get suplexed by the future superstar of the DCW?" He jabbed both thumbs at his chest. "Killer Croc, that's who! Remember who put you over when you make the big times, kid!"

"You can't go off-script like that too often," John warned his son. Dick scuffed the ground with a foot. "But that was a brilliant suplex, son."

Dick bounced on his toes, his buoyant mood recovered. "Mr. Luthor says I can be in a real match against Mr. Jones soon! I hope Mr. Gambi can finish my new costume before then!"

"I believe you still owe all of us better skulkers a pizza, Kent," said Bruce. "And it's good for all of us to be seen in public together, since we're supposed to be a team." His smile turned a bit lopsided. "And I think I'd like to enjoy spending some time with--with all of you before my inevitable betrayal of my former compatriots."

"Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!" Harvey yelled, slapping him on the back. "Pop culture reference," he added at Bruce's blank look. "Forgot you don't get most of those, never mind."

"You guys are so _cool_ ," said Dick.

Clark couldn't help snorting. "You've been in the business a lot longer than I have!"

"Yeah, but..." Dick shifted from one foot to the other. "You're just _cooler_."

Clark smiled at him, remembering a young man of the same age, full of excitement and insecurity. "You want to come have some pizza with us?"

"Gosh!" Dick looked at his parents, who smiled and nodded. "That'd be _great_! Let me change and I'll be right back!"

"Hey, kid!" Dick paused and Bruce threw a spare JLI t-shirt at him. "This way you'll fit in better." 

Dick beamed and ran off, clutching the shirt.

"Damn it," Barda grumbled. "Does this mean I don't get to have a beer with my pizza?"

"He grew up around wrestlers," Bruce said as they gathered up their stuff. "I'm pretty sure a couple of beers aren't going to faze him. Let's throw our bags in the car while he changes," he said. "Clark, will you stay here and let him know where we are?"

Clark tossed him a salute and they went off down the corridor, chatting. Heading back toward the locker room, he was passing by Lex Luthor's office when the door swung open and Otis Berg stumbled out, looking pale. "You're not going to talk to Luthor right now, are you?" When Clark shook his head, he sighed in relief. "He's busy chewing out Jenna--Ms Duffy. She does our stage work," he added to Clark's blank look. "Apparently her crew was too slow with the Graysons' harnesses," Otis said. "Almost screwed up the timing of the whole spot. Luthor's madder than a wet hen." He wiped his brow with a checkered handkerchief. "Let me tell you, I'm glad I'm only his _kayfabe_ assistant. I don't know how that Graves woman manages it."

"'That Graves woman' manages it quite well, thank you," said an arctic voice, and Otis jumped as Mercy Graves came around the corner.

"S--S--Sorry, Ms Graves!" he stammered, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere but there. 

The door slammed open again, this time disgorging a woman in overalls and a utility belt slung with wrenches, drills, and levels. "Fine!" she yelled back into Luthor's office. "Go ahead and replace me with someone who works faster, see what kind of quality you get!"

"I can show you to the exit, Ms Duffy," Mercy said.

"I know my goddamn way," snarled the woman, and stomped off.

"I believe you both have places to be?" Mercy said to Clark and Otis as they stared after Jenna Duffy.

"Oh yes! Yes, of course!" Otis hurried away. Clark met Mercy's cold green eyes and decided it might be best to continue hunting for Dick Grayson.

By the time he'd tracked the excited teen down, he'd almost forgotten the conversation entirely.

**: : :**

Dinner was a raucous affair, with everyone competing to see who could order the most expensive toppings for their pizza while Clark complained strenuously. Dick asked an endless flow of questions, and the JLI wrestlers were more than happy to share their stories as he hung on every word.

"Excuse me?" The conversation stopped as a boy barely in his teens approached the table, his cell phone in his shaking hand. "Can--I was just wondering--I hate to bother you, but can--can I get a picture with--"

All the wrestlers at the table smiled indulgently.

"--with you?" the boy finished, gazing adoringly at Dick Grayson as if no one else was there at all.

"Oh, sure thing!" Dick hopped up from his seat, oblivious to the subtle deflation of his table-mates.

"I'm such a huge fan," the boy said as Bruce obligingly took their picture together, "This--this means the world to me."

"Thank you so much! Fans like you are the reason wrestling is _fun_ ," Dick said, with all the aplomb of a wrestler twice his age. He grabbed his napkin. "Let me sign something for you."

"You--you'd--" The boy looked like he might pass out.

"What's your name?"

The fan mumbled something too low for anyone but Dick to pick out, but Dick grinned and signed the napkin with a flourish. "To Tim, from Dick Grayson. Keep smiling!"

The boy--Tim, apparently--leaned close to Dick and whispered loudly, "You're not joining up with _them_ , are you?"

"What, the JLI?" Tim nodded solemnly, looking down at Dick's chest. "Oh, the t-shirt. Nah, I'm just having some pizza, learning some tricks of the trade from them."

Tim looked dubious. "Be careful," he said, eyeing the other wrestlers warily before walking away, staring at his cell phone as if at the secrets of the universe.

"That would make an interesting angle," Bruce said thoughtfully. "Bright young star asserts his independence by teaming up with the troublemakers invading his boss's promotion? Great storyline."

Dick's face lit up. "Gosh, do you think--?" He broke off, his smile fading. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, it would never work. I don't want to have to reject my parents, you know? I think I can make it on my own without seeming like I was stabbing them in the back."

Bruce took a bite of pizza: Clark had learned to read his expression (or lack thereof) fairly well by now, and there were hints of both disappointment and approval in the set of his jaw. 

"I'm pretty sure you can too," said Bruce.


	18. Frustration, Anger, and Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the invasion drags on, Bruce starts to get restless.

_ Wrestling is my greatest release. It's been such a blessing for me. I can step into the ring and let it all go--all my anger, all my frustration, all my pain. Whoosh! Everything just comes out of me. It's a beautiful feeling, a gift. --Eddie Guerrero _

"I'm tired of this," gritted Bruce as they left yet another meeting, this one to design their Jumbotron presentations. "When do we get to _wrestle_ again?"

Harvey clapped him on the back. "Relax, Bruce. Come on, what's to complain about? We show up, act ominous, collect a nice paycheck--all without risking injury in the ring! Sweet deal, as far as I'm concerned."

"You don't understand," snarled Bruce. "Wrestling is more than a paycheck, it's--" He threw up his hands in frustration. "It's the chance to create a story where the world makes sense, to carve it out with my body and my will. If I don't get in the ring now and then, I just feel like I'm going to--to fall apart or something. Explode. Disappear."

"You talk about wrestling like most men talk about sex, darling," said Selina, trailing a playful hand down his back. Bruce batted it away. 

"It's much more important than that," he said, and stalked out.

Selina watched him go and sighed. "The boy's got issues," she said as they entered the common room in the Green Bay auditorium.

"So, were you and he ever, you know--" Barda raised her eyebrows expressively, and Clark found himself watching for Selina's reaction. "--together?"

"Are you kidding me? Not that I didn't try," Selina said. "But no, not Bruce Wayne. If it isn't happening in the ring he doesn't care about it."

"Sex in the ring." Barda grinned at Scott, who turned red to the roots of his hair. "Sounds fun."

"This is a travesty!" A new, shriller voice rang out. "An outrage!" Clark looked up to see Jack Napier charging into the room, bristling with fury, even his floppy hair seeming to stand on end. 

"What's the trouble, Gentleman Jack?" Oliver Queen looked up from his coffee at the agitated Napier.

"Luthor's making me the Red Hood!" Napier wailed, jittering around the room.

"Oh." Queen took a slurp of his coffee. "Sucks to be you, man."

"Isn't there already a Red Hood?" Clark asked Scott in an undertone; Napier heard him and rounded on him. 

"There've been twenty Red Hoods, you imbecile!" He was incandescent with anger, rage stretching his narrow, mobile face into a rictus mask. "It's a monster gimmick wearing a red helmet, _any_ fool could play it. Luthor just rotates whoever he doesn't have a use for into the role to stomp around and lose to whatever face needs to win a match against a bully." He clutched at his hair. "Red Hood isn't _funny_! Red Hood isn't even allowed to _talk_! He's burying me, and I don't even know _why._ How am I ever going to make the audience laugh if I'm stuck under a stupid helmet?"

"Just be glad you've still got a job, Jack," said Queen, finishing his coffee, and Napier's anger collapsed in on itself. 

"You're right," he groaned. "I have to just--just deal with it," he said. "I'll prove I'm a good worker--again--and he'll give me a better gimmick, I know it. One that plays to my strengths. I'll be the best comedy heel the wrestling world has ever seen."

Clark, who had seen some of Gentleman Jack Napier's work on the mic since their last encounter, said "Have you...considered pitching a non-comedy gimmick?"

"Are you kidding? It's my destiny, it's my avocation, it's my dream!" Napier's eyes were alight as if he could hear the approving laughter of an invisible crowd. "Someday I'll make them all laugh. You'll see. I'll show them all."

"Hey, Dick's match is starting!" called Diana Prince, and nearly everyone dropped what they were doing to look at the monitor.

In his new costume--sequined green shorts and all--Dick Grayson was running to the ring to confront Killer Croc. He vaulted over the top rope effortlessly, and the wrestlers murmured their approval.

"Nice entrance," said Jonathan Crane, looking up from the noose he was carefully adjusting around his neck like a tie. "The kid knows his stuff."

Croc kicked him and Dick collapsed onto the mat as if hit by a hammer. The camera cut to the audience, where a girl was peeking through her fingers, her mouth shaped into a horrified "O." 

Diana snickered. "What a showman."

"Well, he's got years of practice in taking bumps," Oliver Queen said.

Bruce was frowning at the television. "He takes a hit better than I've ever seen," he said, "But his ring psychology could use some work. Well, _look_ at him," he said a little defensively as some of the wrestlers glared at him. "Croc kicked his arm and he practically made the audience believe it was broken. But now it's two minutes later and he isn't selling the injury, there's clearly nothing wrong with his arm. He lives in the moment and doesn't use what's gone before to tell a story." He shook his head. "And his offense isn't aggressive enough. He can take it, but he can't dish it out as convincingly. He's got more raw potential than just about any rookie I've seen, but he's still pretty raw as a wrestler."

"He'll never be more than mid-card anyway," said Hal Jordan. This time Bruce joined in the people glaring, and Hal shrugged. "He doesn't have the build. No one will ever believe someone as short and scrawny as him can beat the big guys. Unless he fills out and bulks up a bit, he's going to end up just a very good jobber."

"That's Lex's opinion," said Bruce, "And it's one of his biggest weaknesses as a promoter, that he pushes big brawny guys at the expense of the smaller ones." 

"He's getting a push now, isn't he?" said Jordan, gesturing at the screen. "The crowd loves him."

Bruce grimaced. "Lex tends to promote smaller wrestlers too quickly, he over-exposes them and then the crowd stops forgiving them their rookie mistakes and gets tired of them. Then he takes that as 'proof' that audiences don't like little guys and goes right back to muscled monsters." On the screen, Dick executed a moonsault off the top ropes, adding a half-twist that made the audience gasp. "I'm telling you that the kid has the potential to be one of the greatest technical wrestlers ever, if Lex doesn't waste it or burn him out. He just needs some seasoning. Maybe a little time away from the spotlight, in a smaller promotion…"

Dick ducked a flurry of punches from Croc, but the last one connected with his jaw and he went down in a heap. Croc pinned him, the bell rang, and Dick Grayson's debut match was at an end. 

Bruce looked away from the screen, where Croc was retreating up the ramp to resounding boos, and met Clark's eyes. "Ready to go out there and be rabble-rousing rebels who don't get to wrestle again?"

The knot of wrestlers was breaking up now that Dick was done, drifting off to their own pursuits once more. "I'm sure we'll be having actual matches soon," Clark said as they left the room.

Bruce's posture was tense and prickly. "I hope so," he muttered.

They arrived at the emergency door and waited for their cue. Elsewhere in the auditorium Harvey, Selina, Barda and Scott were ready to come down through the crowd to the ring and interfere with Oliver Queen's match with the Scarecrow. The crowd was a dim roar beyond the door, and the only light was the faint red glow of the emergency exit sign. Clark could barely make out the curve of Bruce's face in the darkness.

"Well," he said, "When we're full-time and official, I hope I'll get to be in an angle with you again."

"Are you kidding?" Bruce's voice was closer than he had expected. "Why do you think I'm relapsing back to full-blown heel?"

"You don't have to. I could take a heel turn," Clark said.

Bruce snorted. "You? You'd hate being a heel, Clark. You're a natural-born babyface, and there are all too few of them."

Clark couldn't help sighing a little. "Heels are where all the drama is, though. All the best wrestlers are heels. Faces are a dime a dozen."

"Not the real ones." Bruce's voice was nearly at his ear now; Clark could feel his body near him in the dark. "Not the ones who mean it." Clark heard him take a breath as though he was going to say something else--

And then they heard Scarecrow's line that was their cue to enter the arena.

Bruce exhaled sharply, almost a sigh. "Ready?"

It was pitch-black, but they didn't need to see each other anymore to bump fists lightly.

The crowd started murmuring as they entered, a ripple of sound and attention that spread out from where they were across the audience. Clark could see Scott and Barda and Harvey and Selina making their way down the aisle to confront Scarecrow as well. Kids craned their necks or were lifted by parents to stare at them as they passed. Clark couldn't help smiling back at one especially adorable, wide-eyed toddler, and Bruce shot him a sardonic look: _you could be a heel? Right._

Clark had his face arranged back into a glower by the time they approached the ring.

A security guard jumped to block their way, his arms outstretched dramatically. "Stop right there," he warned.

Clark crossed his arms and glared like a good invader; Bruce echoed his motion. "Out of our way," Bruce said, low and dangerous.

The guard swallowed hard but didn't move.

Clark was pretty sure this guy didn't know how to take a bump, so he stuck with the tried-and-true: he reached out and shoved the guard, sending him staggering backwards. Beyond him, he could see that the other JLI members were already in the ring, and everyone was waiting for Bruce and Clark to get there. "All right," he said to the guard as he righted himself, pitched low under the crowd noise, "That's good enough, now let us by."

"The hell I will!" the guard said, and surged forward.

Clark put his shoulder down and clipped him lightly as he came forward; the guard made a growling noise and pulled out a prop stungun. Clark shook his head: _You think a little shock's going to stop me? _and started to push past him again.__

___"Hold it!"_ The guard's wrist was suddenly caught in Bruce's grip, and the stungun clattered to the ground. "Get to the ring," Bruce said to Clark; he let go of the guard as Clark hurried past and followed._ _

__Selina gave him a quick, questioning look as they jumped into the ring, but Clark shook his head as Bruce charged into his latest monologue about upholding the rights of the little guy against bullies like the Scarecrow. The audience cheered a bit weakly--they were attacking the loathed Scarecrow now, but no one had forgotten that they'd been attacking Green Lantern and Green Arrow just last week. Green Arrow was still collapsed in a corner where Crane's "fear toxin" had left him vulnerable, and the crowd was worried about him._ _

__"We attack everyone, we're just crazy that way," Bruce had explained with a grin. "The smarks know what's up."_ _

__Big Barda feinted at Scarecrow, and Crane flinched and scrambled out of the ring to the jeers of the audience. Bruce went over to where Queen was cowering in the corner of the ring and bent over him, leaning close and patting his shoulder._ _

__The audience went very still, and the rest of the JLI exchanged glances. This wasn't how the ending of the run-in had been booked--they were supposed to ignore Green Arrow and let him slip from the ring and stagger away, leaving the match a "smudge" with no clear winner._ _

__Bruce was helping a still-shaky Green Arrow get to his feet, his arm wrapped around his back. A few uncertain cheers went up as Bruce gestured to the referee to start the count-out against the Scarecrow that would cede the match to Green Arrow by default. As the referee began the count, throwing his hands up dramatically with each number, Bruce propped Queen up, murmuring in his ear with a concerned expression._ _

__At the count of seven, Bruce shot Clark a look that Clark knew well by now: _I'm about to go off-script and you need to respond.__ _

___Oh boy,_ thought Clark, and realized that the thought was not exasperated but gleeful._ _

__At the count of nine, Bruce abruptly shoved Queen so his face whacked into Bruce's knee, then flipped him onto his back with a resounding _slam_. Queen flopped like a rag doll and then lay still. As the crowd gasped, Bruce stood over him and laughed._ _

__Clark jumped forward and grabbed Bruce by the shoulder, spinning him around. Bruce threw his arms out in hyper-exaggerated confusion: _What? We're on the same side, man!__ _

__"What was all that about being against bullies?" Clark yelled. "What do you call this?" He gestured at Green Arrow's crumpled body, and Queen twitched obligingly for the cameras._ _

__"I call this vengeance!" Bruce shoved him in the chest, and Clark staggered back, his arms flailing. Barda caught and steadied him, Scott at her side, and now it was Clark, Barda and Scott on one side of the ring and Harvey, Selina and Bruce on the other. For a long moment they glared at each other._ _

__Then Bruce composed himself with a visible effort and nodded. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're right." He stepped forward (over Green Arrow's prone body) and extended his hand._ _

__Clark took it without hesitation. The crowd gasped and tensed, but the handshake stayed friendly: now wasn't the time for Bruce's betrayal._ _

__They left the ring together, with Clark sparing one apologetic look back at the crumpled Green Arrow._ _

__**: : :** _ _

__"What the hell was that?" Bruce was yelling at Lex Luthor, ignoring the icy look in his boss's eyes. "Those aren't _toys_ and this isn't a game, Luthor! Someone could have been hurt!"_ _

__"You're one to speak," said Luthor. "The guard threatened to sue over the sprained wrist you gave him."_ _

__"He was going to tase Clark, because you didn't bother to inform him we were working for you!"_ _

__Luthor lifted his lip. "Mall cops aren't generally known for their acting abilities. They sold it better because they thought you were legit. Aren't you the one always yelping about _authenticity_?"_ _

__"Not if it might get someone hurt," Bruce snarled._ _

__"Wait, is that guy going to sue Bruce?" Clark asked, hoping to break the tension between them. "Because despite his gimmick I'm not sure he can afford a gigantic lawsuit."_ _

__Luthor shot him a dangerous, measuring look. Then he visibly relaxed, tugging his lapels into place. "Of course not, you idiot. He was going to sue the DCW. But I convinced him not to. I can be quite persuasive. "_ _

__"Money can't make every problem just disappear, Luthor," said Bruce._ _

__"Well," said Luthor with a thin smile, "We'll just have to agree to disagree on that, Mr. Wayne." He frowned sharply. "And what the hell were you up to out there, going rogue like that? Faceplanting Queen was not part of the plan."_ _

__"I thought I sold it pretty well," said Oliver._ _

__"Not the _point_ , Queen," said Luthor, not looking at him._ _

__"Hey, every wrestler has some freedom to improvise in the ring," said Bruce with a shrug. "I didn't change the result of the match, I didn't even change _how_ it ended. You still got your smudge ending with no clear winner or loser, the crowd got to see Queen's face hit the mat--sure, he's a babyface, but everyone likes to see Green Arrow take a beating now and then."_ _

__"Hey," Queen protested, but there was no real heat in it._ _

__"Plus we foreshadowed the eventual splintering of our little clique. That's not going rogue, that's good storytelling."_ _

__"Foreshadowed? More like forced," Luthor said. "We'll have to move forward on that storyline faster now."_ _

__Bruce shrugged. "You know it's time."_ _

__Luthor's lips thinned, but he didn't argue. "I'll have the bookers get to work on it. They should have a scenario to run by _me_ soon." He pointed at Bruce. "And no altering this one on the fly."_ _

__"I won't change the results," Bruce said. "But if it needs alterations in the ring, I'm going to make them. Luthor, my instincts are good and you know it. It's why you hired me."_ _

__"Don't make me doubt the wisdom of that decision," Luthor bit out, then turned to Mercy. "Tell Grant and Mark to have a basic script for the end of the JLI angle on my desk by tomorrow morning."_ _

__**: : :** _ _

__Clark opened his hotel room door after a quick evening workout in the hotel gym to find Bruce using the back of his chair for push-ups. "Thanks for following my lead tonight," Bruce said as he walked in._ _

__Clark tossed his bag in the corner, running a hand through his shower-damp hair. He should probably tell Bruce to stop breaking into his room, but the truth was he rather liked it. "It was a logical choice."_ _

__"It was," Bruce said at the apex of a push-up._ _

__"That's not why you did it, though," said Clark._ _

__Bruce lifted an eyebrow. "It's not?"_ _

__"Nope." Clark dropped onto the bed. "You just wanted to kick someone's ass."_ _

__Bruce stopped abruptly at the bottom of a push-up, his face hidden by the back of the chair, and held that position so long Clark could see the muscles of his shoulders start to shake. Then he pushed himself abruptly to his feet and collapsed into the other chair. Propping his chin on his hand, he looked at Clark for a while. "That obvious, huh?"_ _

__"Not at all," Clark said. He yawned and yanked down the sheets, crawling under in his sweatsuit. "Only to me."_ _

__"Only to you," Bruce said, still looking at him._ _

__"You've got everyone mostly-convinced you're some kind of ice-cold intellectual wrestler who only cares about storylines and technique," Clark said. "But you're not. Part of what you love about wrestling is you get to beat people up without hurting anyone."_ _

__"Hm," said Bruce. "Interesting armchair analysis."_ _

__"You're the one in the armchair," said Clark. He yawned again and let his eyes close. "I'm in bed."_ _

__"That you are," said Bruce._ _

__"Sorry," Clark mumbled. "Can't stay awake to talk strategy tonight. Stay as long as you like, though."_ _

__He heard Bruce laugh, an abrupt snort. "Luthor nearly got you tased tonight, and your biggest concern was that I might get sued," he said. "Such a babyface."_ _

__"Hey," said Clark, already half-asleep. "There's no reason to be insulting."_ _

__"True enough," said Bruce. If he said anything more, Clark missed it as sleep took him._ _

__**: : :** _ _

__In the morning he woke to find Bruce still in the armchair, long legs stretched out in front of him, the sliver of sunlight through the drapes tentatively touching his sleeping face._ _


	19. Sanity Clause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The JLI invasion angle draws to a close with a contract signing in the ring. What are the odds someone's getting thrown through that table? Pretty high.

_ Wrestling is, more than anything else in the world (besides porn, I guess), about instant gratification. Having problems with your boss? WATCH SOMEBODY PUNCH THEIR BOSS, NOW YOU’RE BETTER. --Brandon Stroud _

"Do you think maybe there's some way I can be funny in this promo?" Jack Napier was looking glumly at the red luchador-style mask, designed to cover his entire head. Even the face was obscured, with a mesh that allowed the wrestler to peer out but hid the features. "I'm more of a verbal comedian, but with this gimmick I'm limited to physical gags. Have you noticed the subtle humor of my portrayal?"

"It's...very subtle," Clark said politely. _To the point of nonexistence_. Red Hood was, like Darkseid, generally used as muscle for Lex Luthor's corporate-bad-guy gimmick. Unlike Darkseid, it was not a speaking gimmick, and his job was limited to standing at Luthor's shoulder and being intimidating. Considering Napier's slender build, he wasn't particularly good at that either. "There's definitely an...ironic edge to the gimmick."

"Exactly!" Napier beamed. "The marks haven't noticed it yet, but I'm sure the smarks who are paying attention will realize what a nuanced performance I'm giving."

"He doesn't read the _Planet_ , I gather," said Oliver Queen as he wandered off to suit up.

"Apparently not," said Clark. Perry White's dirt sheet had been scathing in its one-line dismissal of the "new and unimproved Red Hood."

"Maybe he's just covering for the fact that he's the leak," Queen said. "Did you see the latest?"

"The one about Isley?"

Queen rolled his eyes. "Nah. Luthor doesn't care if people know Poison Ivy's gay. Hell, it'll probably boost her popularity--" He broke off and looked thoughtful, "In fact, I wonder if that was a deliberate leak. But no, I mean the story about Lex trying to sign Jean-Paul Valley. Had exact figures for the offers and everything. Luthor was livid."

"Maybe you're the leak," Clark said. 

He'd meant to sound joking, but Queen looked horrified. "Hey, the whole Robin Hood thing is just a _gimmick_ ," he said, raising his hands in the air. "Don't talk shit like that." He actually looked around to make sure no one was listening.

"Aren't you being a little paranoid?" said Bruce, rounding the corner out of nowhere, and Queen flinched.

"Stop doing that, man. You're freaking me out," he muttered, and hastily made himself scarce.

"Protesting too much?" Clark said, looking after him.

"Nah." Bruce sat down in his vacated chair. "I'm pretty sure I know who the leak is." He grinned at Clark's expression. "I'm not telling until I know for certain, though."

"What are you going to do, plant a fake rumor and see if it shows up in the _Planet_?"

"Hey, that's a pretty good idea," Bruce said, admiration glowing in his face. "Downright devious, Clark. If we--"

"No way," Clark said, laughing. "I am not conspiring with you to smoke out a mole. Things are paranoid enough here already."

"Fine," said Bruce, mock-aggrieved. "I'll just keep my clever deductions to myself, then. No, don't beg me to tell you, it will avail you nothing."

Clark snorted and returned to reading his script. "I still think this is ridiculous," he said, slapping the paper. "No one is going to believe this about the stock options."

"They'll believe it if we make them want to believe it," Bruce said.

"Confident as always," said Selina, pulling up a chair. Her hair was still black--"I won't go blonde until we're official"--and she was wearing her JLI t-shirt.

"Of course," said Bruce. "Ready to be a lawyer again?" he called to Harvey. 

"You bet," said Harvey. "The party of the first part shall be known in this contract as the party of the first part." He waggled his eyebrows. "How do you like that? That's pretty neat, eh?"

"Groucho Marx, _A Night at the Opera_ ," said Clark, as Bruce looked blank.

"Why do I even try with this guy, I ask you," said Harvey, slapping Bruce lightly on the back. He looked back at Clark. "Hey, if I get a chance I'll use that 'sanity clause' line tonight, you ready to pick it up and run with it?"

"Perfect," said Clark.

"Don't feel bad," said Harvey to Bruce, who didn't look like he felt bad at all, "If the Marx Brothers had made a movie about professional wrestling I'm sure you'd know it by heart."

**: : :**

"The way I see it," said Lex Luthor as the crowd murmured, "You leave me no choice."

The six former members of the JLI stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the ring, facing down Lex Luthor, who was flanked by Darkseid and Red Hood while Otis tried to make himself inconspicuous behind them. Between them was a desk. Clark had to admit it made a pretty dramatic tableau.

"If what it takes to keep you from interfering with my business is to sign you, then that's what I'm going to have to do," Luthor went on. He snapped his fingers and Otis cringed forward, pulling a sheaf of papers from a folder. "So let's do it. I'll sign you here and now, live in this ring, to full-time contracts at salaries the likes of which you never even dreamed of with Lord's promotion. There are only two stipulations."

He grinned at them for a moment, and the JLI wrestlers exchanged uneasy looks. 

"The first stipulation," Lex said, holding up a finger, "Is that _he_ \--" the finger was leveled at Bruce Wayne, "--is not part of the deal and is not getting a contract. Oh, don't play innocent with me," he said as Bruce threw up his hands and looked shocked. "I know perfectly well you're the ringleader of this sorry little bunch. The rest of them don't have enough brains between them to come up with something like this, but you…" His eyes narrowed, "You are smarter than you act, Billionaire Brucie."

Clark mimed looking insulted, but he felt a sudden chill run down his spine at the assessing look Luthor and Bruce were giving each other. _He doesn't have to look quite so sincere, does he?_

"So you are out of the equation," Luthor said as Otis put five pieces of paper on the table. "The rest of you, however, are free to examine your contracts." He gestured magnanimously at the papers on the table, and the remainder of the JLI went to the table and picked up their contracts as Brucie retreated to the corner of the ring, glowering. 

"This is _amazing_!" Selina said, jumping up and down with her contract. "I could buy enough diamonds to bathe in with this!"

Scott and Barda were eyeing their contracts more warily, keeping one eye on Darkseid, who had played Scott's evil foster-father back in the glory days of the JLI and was thus not to be trusted. But soon even they were nodding in reluctant approval. Harvey was going over it carefully, rolling some of the more sonorous legal phrases around on his tongue like a fine wine.

Only Clark seemed unconvinced. "I don't like it," he said, glaring down at his contract. "I don't want to leave Brucie behind. We're finally kind of friends, and I just…" His voice trailed off as his comrades slapped him on the back, urging him to sign it and join them. 

Clark hoped the cameras were catching Brucie's face as he watched his former teammates prepare to abandon him; he gave Brucie a quick, imploring look and Brucie looked away.

"It's just...there's a lot of long words and stuff I don't understand here," he said. "Like this bit." he held up the contract and read laboriously aloud: "If any of the parties participating in this contract are shown not to be in their right mind, the entire agreement is automatically nolli--nullified."

Harvey stepped up in full "lawyer mode," preening. "I can explain that! That's standard in contracts like this, it's what they call a 'sanity clause.'"

Clark threw the paper down on the table with an "ah-ha!" expression on his face. "Luthor's just fooling with you all! I know there ain't no Sanity Clause." He nodded sagely at the dumbfounded Harvey and explained in a loud stage-whisper, "My Pa was the one left all those presents under the tree every year!"

The crowd groaned in unison, but before Harvey could open his mouth to try to explain, Luthor spoke again: "I do believe I haven't mentioned my second stipulation yet." The wrestlers fell silent as he smiled at them. "As the lot of you have clearly established yourselves to be troublemakers and rabble-rousers, I will require a bit of extra proof that you're willing to work with me. Willing to work _for_ me. And willing to do what you must to prove that you truly are loyal...and obedient...employees. That's why in order to get the right to sign this lucrative and rewarding contract, each of you must first bend down and kiss my…" He paused just long enough to let the crowd's murmurs ratchet up into growls before finishing, "...my foot."

"You want us to--" 

"--That's right," Luthor spoke over Scott's words, "I will be requiring you all to get down on your hands and knees and kiss my shoes for the right to work for me. I'm sure you'll agree that's more than fair."

A dramatic pause as the JLI wrestlers emoted shock and uncertainty, each in their own way: Barda brandished an angry fist; Selina looked coy; Clark just scowled. Finally, Harvey stepped forward and took the mic.

"If it must be done..." he said, and as the crowd howled in horror, he dropped to his knees.

Lex extended one shining wingtip, and Harvey closed his eyes and screwed his face up into a parody of a preparation for a kiss. He leaned forward--

"Wait a second." Billionaire Brucie stepped forward once more, taking a spare mic from Clark. "This seems like a good time to mention, Lex--" He paused and made the audience wait for it, just for a moment. "--That I've been buying up DCW stock. Various shell companies, it's all a bit too complicated to explain here."

Shocked silence. The crowd seemed to be holding its breath. Harvey opened one eye, his lips still grotesquely puckered.

Luthor was staring at Brucie. "You can't be implying--Impossible! I still own 51% of the company, I'm the majority shareholder, you can't just--"

"--It's true," Brucie said mournfully, "I haven't been able to get enough shares to really oust you." He flashed a bright smile. "But I do have 25% of the shares, and there's an odd little clause in the bylaws that allows someone with 25% of company stock to offer contracts to people."

 _The audience will never believe that!_ Clark had argued when they first read the script. But Bruce had laughed until there were tears at the corners of his eyes and sworn that the average professional wrestling fan understood stockholder bylaws about as well as they understood quantum physics, and if he could sell it, they'd believe it.

And indeed, the crowd was eating it up as Brucie swaggered into the center of the ring and announced, "And I do believe I'll be offering contracts to all my old JLI buddies--and myself, of course. No foot-kissing required," he added as Harvey sprang up, beaming. "I even took the liberty of drafting myself a contract in advance," he said, producing a sheet of paper from his pocket.

Luthor had turned an impressive shade of apoplectic red--he had the useful ability to redden at will, and his baldness made it look even more dramatic. He sputtered in helpless rage as the JLI wrestlers signed their contracts, Brucie signing last with a flourish. "It's a pleasure to be working for you," Brucie beamed. He turned his back on Luthor to leave the ring--

And Luthor gestured to Darkseid and Red Hood, who sprang at him.

As one, the former JLI members countered the attack: Scott and Barda taking on Darkseid, Country Clark and Harvey dealing with Red Hood (Otis immediately scrambled to get away from the fray). As the battle raged around the ring and Luthor stood in fuming rage, Brucie tapped him on the shoulder.

As Luthor turned to yell at him, Brucie caught him up, flipped him over in the air, and drove him headfirst into the table.

The audience screamed its approval as Scott tripped Darkseid into Barda's finishing punch and Harvey and Clark picked Red Hood up and threw him from the ring on top of the panicked Otis. Brucie's new theme music--harpsichords and electric guitars--struck up, and the JLI left the ring together side by side for the last time, new official members of the DCW.

**: : :**

On the Jumbotron in the arena, the audience could see Billionaire Brucie strolling down the halls, whistling "Mo' Money Mo' Problems" to himself and smiling smugly.

"Brucie! Hey, Brucie!" The camera swiveled to take in Country Clark in his straw hat and overalls, hurrying to catch at Brucie's sleeve. "I'm--I'm really glad we're still going to be working together," he stammered.

"Well," Brucie said, "Considering I own 25% of the stock now, it's more accurate to say that you'll be working for me." He smiled at Clark, giving the camera plenty of time to capture Clark's stricken face. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you're given nice easy matches you can win."

Clark's face darkened. "I don't need you to make things easy for me, Brucie," he muttered.

"Oh, and that's another thing," Brucie said. "I think maybe it should be 'Mr. Wayne,' don't you?"

There was a beat of silence. "Oh," said Clark. "I get it. You were just using us, weren't you? To get people to sympathize with you and make your takeover easier."

Brucie mimed exuberant delight, clapping his hands together. "I knew you weren't _quite_ as dim as you seemed," he said. "Or--wait, did Harvey figure that out for you and explain it using nice small words?"

"No," said Clark. "I figured it out all on my own." He crossed his arms and looked at Brucie, his expression more disappointed than angry. "I should have known better, I guess," he said. "I don't need your help or anyone else's--I can make it here without owning a chunk of the company. I learned that and I'm not gonna forget it. But _you_ might need to learn that just 'cause you've got more money doesn't make you better than anyone else."

For a long minute they stared at each other: Country Clark hurt and resolute, Billionaire Brucie disdainful (but was that a flicker of remorse in his face? Surely not). Then Clark turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Brucie alone in the hallway once more.

After a moment, he strolled off in the other direction. He was whistling to himself once more, but a little slower and a fraction quieter. 

**: : :**

"I bet you would have liked that to be real," said Lex Luthor, rubbing the back of his neck as he came into the common room. 

Bruce raised innocent eyebrows. "What, the piledriver?" The last match between Green Lantern and Sinestro was raging on the screen, but neither he nor Luthor glanced at it.

Luthor glared at him. "No, that stock takeover."

Bruce shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous." He pushed damp hair out of his eyes and winked at Luthor. "If I were trying to take over your company, Luthor, I wouldn't be content with only twenty-five percent."

Luthor gave him a long look, then laughed out loud, throwing his head back. "I can see I'm going to have to keep my eye on you, Wayne," he said. "And you," he said, turning to Clark. "Great job with that backstage promo, you sell heartbroken really well."

"Uh, thank you," said Clark.

"We'll get the two of you in an angle starting next show," he said. "Wayne's going to be using his 'newfound power'--" The scare quotes were palpable, "--to make some peoples' lives miserable, and you can step up and confront him about it. Have fun and sell tickets." He turned to Selina. "Kyle! Get over here, I want to talk to you about that gimmick of yours."

Clark and Bruce left him discussing with Selina the possibility that he could seem to murder her and she could come back from the dead with a grudge against him. Selina's dubious voice drifted back to them: "But do you really think they'll buy me being licked back to life by cats?"

"We need to get practicing," said Bruce. Clark looked over; his eyes were dreamy and fixed off in the distance. "You haven't done that hurricanrana with anyone since our angle ended and I'm betting you've gotten rusty."

"Rusty? Me?" Clark punched his shoulder. "Country Clark never gets ring rust. Now, your cobra clutch slam, that probably needs some work."

"Ah Clark," said Bruce with a fond sigh, "You're the best enemy a man could ever ask for."


	20. Scattered Fragments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy strikes the DCW.

_ For me, the emotion was always real, especially the heartbreak. --Bret Hart _

"See, there, Dick?" Clark looked up from his sudoku to see Bruce tap the remote, pausing the video on the screen: Dick Grayson frozen as he came out of a handstand to bodyslam Two-Face. "That's the problem."

"I thought it looked pretty good," mumbled Dick from where he was sprawled on the torn and stained backstage couches.

"It looked beautiful," said Bruce. "Fluid. Graceful. Effortless. And that's _exactly_ the problem." He rewound the video to where Two-Face had pinned Dick in the Double Trouble armlock, wrenching his arm behind his back. "Your arm's supposed to be injured. The smarks will notice that you're not being consistent--and more importantly, the marks will too, just at a subconscious level. The performance won't _convince_ them."

Dick eyed the video glumly. "Gosh, Bruce, I guess you're right," he said. "But I can't help it, it's just so much _fun_ to finally be out there, I can't hide it to be all grim and gloomy."

Bruce sighed. "The audience wants to see someone overcoming great odds to defeat evil," he said. "As long as you don't seem to be struggling, people aren't going to _believe_ that you're truly triumphing. Luthor thinks that it's impossible for guys with lighter builds to convince the audience they can beat a big wrestler. I think it's possible--but only if you can sell how much it's costing you to win."

Dick sank deeper in his chair, and Clark shot Bruce a quick look: _Lighten up a little, you're discouraging him._ Bruce glared back at him, annoyed, then took a deep breath and smiled at Dick. "I wouldn't be harping on this if I didn't think you had it in you, Dick," he said. "Don't worry, there'll be plenty of time to work on your ring skills. And there's lots of places for joy in wrestling, too. You'll get all the pieces together eventually."

Dick snickered, his dark mood vanishing without transition. "I'll have lots of chances to work on selling losing, the way Luthor's got me booked. Maybe he'll forget and book me to win a match someday by accident."

"Ready to call it a night, son?" John Grayson appeared in the doorway. "You still need to get that history homework done tonight, and your mother's waiting."

"Gosh, that's right." Dick jumped to his feet. "Thanks Bruce, thanks Clark."

"I'd like to thank you as well," said John as Dick scampered from the room. "For taking him under your wing. He's needed some extra guidance, and--well, no son has ever completely enjoyed taking advice from their father."

"He's a good kid," said Bruce, standing and shaking John's hand. "It's my pleasure."

"I'll see you in Gotham tomorrow," said John. "We Gotham kids have to give our hometown the best show we can, right?" He cuffed Bruce lightly on the shoulder and left.

"He's good for you," said Clark as they finished cleaning up the common room and headed for the exit. "You've been--I don't know--more relaxed since you started those informal lessons." _Happier_ , he almost said, but didn't.

"Really?" Bruce looked thoughtful.

They stopped at the T where Clark would go left to one exit and Bruce right to another: no leaving together now that they were in an angle. "Really," he said, smiling at Bruce's contemplative expression. "You just seem to be enjoying yourself more lately."

"Hm," said Bruce. "That might be true. Of course, there's another potential reason," he said as he turned away.

"Yes?" Clark called to his retreating back. "Care to elaborate?"

Bruce didn't turn back around. "Well, I'm finally back in an angle with you," his voice drifted back as he lifted his hand in a casual gesture: _Elementary._

**: : :**

Gotham. Home of some of the most rabid wrestling fans in the world. The Graysons' home town. A packed auditorium looking up into the rafters in anticipation of their sparkling descent.

Throughout his career, interviewers would sometimes ask Clark Kent what his feelings had been on that horrible night. Usually Clark would just stare at them and they learned to not ask the question. In part he stared because it was no one's damn business and he wasn't going to reward ghoulish questions. But in part it was because his memories of the night were scattered at best: broken fragments, still sharp and bright, that he couldn't seem to assemble without pain.

**: : :**

It started like any other show: a swirl of preparations for the live cameras, the usual combination of tedium and chaos. The sound crew checking the mics. The fresh smells of oil and wood overlaid across the deeper scent of spilled beer and sweat that seemed to be ground into the bones of wrestling venues.

It started with fireworks, and music, and the sharp joyous growl of the crowd as Sinistro entered to a whirl of yellow lasers and space opera chords.

Just like any other night.

People were chattering in the common room as the show progressed: Harvey was playing solitaire, Selina was cautiously stretching in her new patent-leather outfit, and Clark and Bruce were half-heartedly arm-wrestling, neither of them trying very hard to win. 

The Flying Grayson music hit and spotlights swirled to the rafters, where John and Mary Grayson stood together on the platform, the golden wings on their red leotards glinting as they waved at the screaming crowd. Glorious Godfrey's voice was an excited yammer as he talked about the Graysons' return to Gotham and their feud with Killer Croc.

Croc's growling music cut across his voice and the cheers of the crowd, and sullen green fireworks marked the arrival of the King of the Sewers. The camera and the crowd swiveled to catch his strutting entrance, the happy jubilation muting to a mutter of dislike for the monster heel.

And over the noise, there was a distinct _crack_ , as clear and cold as ice.

The crowd murmur shifted abruptly into something Clark had never heard before, a buzz of confusion, and Clark heard Godfrey gasp "Merciful God!" There was horror and shock in his voice that the cynical manipulator of human reaction would never allow, and Clark knew immediately that he was breaking kayfabe, that something truly horrible had happened.

Everyone in the common room was on their feet now, staring at the jumble of images on the screen as frantic directors in the control room switched from camera to camera, unsure what to show. Clark caught a glimpse of Godfrey's twisted face, a wild sweep of the suddenly-silent crowd, a flash of Waylon Jones running toward the ring--and then the camera settled on the ring and the two forms lying within it.

"What happened?" someone asked blankly. "What--"

The camera caught a glimpse of Mary Grayson's face as Waylon bent over her and then flinched away, swinging back to look at the audience. The room went very still.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your patience, please," Godfrey was stammering into his mic as referees and medics streamed down the aisles. The camera did not return to the ring. "This is--this is not part of the show, I'm afraid. This is real and you need to stay calm, please."

"Dick," said a voice at Clark's elbow. He turned to see Bruce, his face white, his eyes still fixed on the screen. "Where's Dick?" 

He whirled and ran from the room and Clark followed him. Behind them, the stunned silence was giving way to sobs and curses, and Bruce was running like a madman through the halls, shoving people aside and yelling for Dick.

They caught up to him just as he ran out onto the ramp and slammed directly into Waylon, his green makeup blurred and streaked with tears. In a nightmare detail he could never forget later, Clark saw a spattering of blood on one of his shoes. "No, Dick," said Waylon, trying to hold him back. "No, you don't want--there's nothing you can--"

Dick punched him in the jaw, a real punch with the weight of anguish behind it, and ran toward the ring, his short yellow cape gleaming like a banner in the darkness.

"He needed to be there, Jones," said Bruce. He started striding toward the ring.

Waylon was rubbing his jaw as Clark helped him to his feet. "I know," he said. "I just didn't want him to--ah, damn it all," he said hopelessly. 

In the ring, Dick was holding his parents' hands as they were lifted gently onto stretchers. Their fingers lay in his grip, lax and motionless. As the stretchers started to be wheeled away, Bruce put an arm around his shoulders; Dick struck it away angrily. Then he turned with a broken jerk and leaned against Bruce, burying his head in his shoulder, his body shaking.

"The poor kid," said Waylon. "Damn it all to hell."

**: : :**

"I've just gotten confirmation from Dr. Thompkins that Mary Grayson died in the ring and John Grayson died on the way to the hospital without ever regaining consciousness." Lex Luthor's face was pale and his eyes were like chips of jade as he spoke to the assembled wrestlers. Selina made a choked sound and Harvey put his arm around her. "We have not released this information to the audience yet. And thus we have a decision to make. Do we cancel the rest of the show, or do we hold that information back and complete the program?" He took a breath. "I want to finish the show. I think John and Mary would have wanted it." Someone muttered something under their breath and his eyes glinted. "But if consensus is against it, I will cancel the show. And no one is required to perform if we go on, of course."

"Always thinking about what's good for business," Barda sneered. "You cold-hearted--"

"--What would you have me do?" Luthor said, icy and precise. "Will tears erase the last half hour? If they would, believe me, I would shed them. But as they will not, we need to control that which we can."

"I'm willing to go out there and wrestle," said Clark. Everyone turned to look at him. "For the kids in the audience, to give them something to take home other than nightmares. But I don't have an opponent." For Bruce had simply announced that he was going to the hospital with Dick and had disappeared into the night.

"I'll wrestle you," said Waylon. "I gotta hit something."

"I'll wrestle too," said Napier.

"No jokes," said Luthor, pointing at him, and Jack deflated somewhat but still agreed to wrestle.

After putting together a patchwork and random schedule, Luthor sent the first pair out to the ring. "No banter, no posturing," he said to Flash and Captain Boomerang. "Just give them a show, do some moves. I don't care who wins and who loses, you work it out among yourselves." He turned to the rest of the room as the wrestlers left. "The rest of you--I need you online."

Everyone gaped at him. "What?" said Crane.

"Laptops, phones, I don't care," said Luthor. "I need everyone not wrestling to get to work getting every single video of the accident pulled."

"Oh God," said Selina. "They'll be everywhere."

"It's not so bad," said Jimmy Olsen from the corner where he'd been typing on a laptop. "The official cameras weren't on them, and most of the audience was looking at Croc's entrance when--when it happened. But there's still a lot to deal with."

"Crane, Kyle, Jordan, Queen--you four focus on Youtube." He waved a hand in the air. "Jimmy, where else do kids today do the uploading thing?"

"We'll need some people in 4chan and Reddit," said Jimmy.

"Mercy, you organize them," said Luthor. "Make sure everyone's got a copy of the standard C&D to work from. And make sure someone's checking the goddamn _Planet_ , those ghouls are sure to have links. Shut them down hard. The rest of you, put on a good show." He paused and cleared his throat. "Not for me, but for John and Mary."

**: : :**

It was a strange match. The crowd was nearly silent, and as Killer Croc and Country Clark had no angle together there was no energy in the fight. But they went through the motions, though Clark nearly had to stop when he realized he was standing on the exact spot where--he dodged to the left and Waylon gave him a knowing, sympathetic look. 

They avoided that corner for the rest of the match.

He went backstage after and joined the effort to keep the videos off the Internet as much as possible. People announced with grim satisfaction how quickly they'd gotten a video pulled: "Only three minutes on that one," Harvey gloated, his mouth a set line.

"Take a break," a voice said at some point, and Clark blinked up from the computer as a sandwich materialized in front of him, The sandwich was connected to Selina Kyle, who waved it at him. "You haven't eaten a thing tonight." 

Clark took the sandwich without a word and wandered out into the auditorium. The show had ended a little while ago, and it was mostly-empty now, dark and sepulchral. Nibbling on tasteless bread, he roamed the aisles, trying to imagine smiles there rather than ashen faces. 

His foot turned on something.

Bending down, he picked it up: a bolt, oddly short. The bottom looked raw, as if it had been sheared off. 

"I got another, Tony!" someone hissed off in a different section, and Clark straightened, frowning.

"Good, good." The second voice was strained. "That's almost all of 'em. Thank God."

"Can I help you with something?" Clark called, and the owner of the second voice stood up abruptly from between two aisles. The name stitched on his coveralls said "Zucco Construction." He was sweating.

"No sir," he said. He looked around the nearly-empty arena. "Look, you shouldn't be here. Um...union rules."

"No problem," said Clark, and went back to work at his computer, frowning.

After another long, blurry time scouring 4chan, Clark slowly became aware someone was standing at his shoulder. "Let's go," said Bruce at the exact moment it fully registered he was there.

Rubbing his eyes, Clark stood up and followed Bruce through the corridors of the auditorium and out into a muggy Gotham night.

Bruce walked without speaking, and Clark fell into step beside him until they came to a small park with a bench. Together they sat for a while, gazing at the bed of florid tiger lilies in front of them.

"Dick's staying with Scott and Barda tonight," said Bruce without preamble. "He needed to be with someone who was...better at normal than I am."

"But you were there for him," Clark said to the bleak undertone in Bruce's voice. "In the ambulance and the hospital, when he needed you."

"I couldn't let him face that alone," Bruce said.

Clark looked at his profile, how his eyes seemed to swallow the darkness of the city and give back no light at all. "You've been through something like this," he said on a sudden impulse. "You've seen people you care about--" He couldn't finish the sentence, because Bruce was looking at him now, his face eerily still, perfect as a marble carving and as devoid of feeling. But Clark knew him too well for that by now. 

"Something like this, yes," Bruce said. His eyes seemed slowly to focus on Clark's face, and some of the lost look went out of them. He took a breath. "Clark, I--"

"--That's why you're so good at this 'Billionaire Brucie' gimmick," Clark said, realization hitting him. "You never forget that he's not just some spoiled rich guy, that underneath it all there's a kid who saw his parents die in front of him: a scared kid who doesn't believe that love can come without a price to be paid."

Bruce blinked. Then he smiled, and there was a bitter edge to it, turned inward. "Maybe he and I aren't so different, in some ways."

"Well, you're working for a living and he's probably in the lap of luxury in a marble mansion on a fantasy island somewhere, but besides that I'm sure you've got a lot in common." Clark chuckled, but Bruce didn't join in, and the strained look was still in his eyes. "Hey, if you ever want to talk about it, about your--"

Bruce shook his head sharply. "I should be focusing on Dick instead of dwelling on my own issues," he said.

"Speaking of which…" Clark reached into his pocket. "Do you think this is anything important?"

The broken bolt gleamed in the palm of his hand, inert and ominous as a bullet.


	21. A Little Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Clark do some digging and some pushing on the subject of the death of the Graysons.

_ When I think of it now, a quote from Georges Braque comes to mind: “Art is a wound turned to light.” To my mind, that is also the beauty of pro wrestling. --Bret Hart _

"Stainless steel hex bolt." Jenna Duffy lifted the broken bit of metal to the light and squinted at it. "And you showed up in my office at nine AM to show it to me...why?"

"Curious as to what you think broke it," Bruce said.

Jenna snickered and tossed the bolt from one hand to the other. "This is why I hate Home Depot--they encourage amateur work. Look, boys, I know you were having fun building your little bunk bed or something, but if you don't know anything about weight tolerances and shear strength, you shouldn't be playing around with these things." She held the bolt up. "See how this sheared off? You put way too much weight on it. Did both of you try to sleep in the top bunk at once?"

Bruce didn't seem to register her jibe at all; his face was set and pale. "Is there any evidence of tampering? Sabotage?"

"Wait, now we're in a Hardy Boys book? Nah, there's none of that, it's just a plain old bolt, called upon to do more than it could bear. It's designed to be quick to tighten and release--I never use them, myself. It's cost me some work, but I don't care. If you're not willing to take the time to do it right, you shouldn't be doing it all." She tossed the bolt back to Clark. "Amateurs."

Clark held it up between them. "And if I told you this bolt was used in the scaffolding that held the Flying Graysons last night?"

Her look went guarded, nervous. " _If_ you told me that, I wouldn't have anything much else to say on the topic." She shrugged. "I ain't got time to deal with a subpoena, you know? So you better not tell me."

"We don't need to, now," said Bruce. He looked at Clark. "Let's go."

**: : :**

"Just what are you implying?" Tony Zucco crossed his arms and looked at the two of them levelly. 

"It's just that--"

"--I've never seen that bolt before in my life," Zucco said, speaking over Clark's voice.

"It comes from the platform that the Graysons--"

"--You're lying. We couldn't find none of them bolts. Musta gotten picked up by audience members. Probably turn up on Ebay someday." He was meeting Clark's gaze without blinking, but there were small beads of sweat at his temples. "But that ain't a bolt I ever use. You can check my toolbox, you nosy bastards."

"Mr. Zucco," said Clark, "We're not accusing you of anything--"

"--Yes we are," Bruce burst out beside him, stepping forward with his fists raised. "We're accusing you of negligence and we're accusing you of leaving a young man without his parents, you--"

He cut off as Clark put an arm out to block him and turned his glare on Clark. Zucco, who had fallen back a step during the tirade, managed a smile. His heart didn't seem to be in it, though. "Accuse me all you like," he said. "I'll slap you with a defamation suit so fast it'll make your muscle-bound heads spin."

"Mr. Zucco," Clark said as politely as he could between his clenched teeth, "If you won't go to the police and confess, I'm afraid we'll have to take this evidence to them."

The smile became a frank baring of teeth. "You feel free to run squealing to the police, son. See where it gets you." He raised his voice as they turned and walked away, yelling after their backs: "I'm a respectable businessman! And what are you guys? You're just liars and fakes, pretending to fight in some made-up world--a bunch of fakes! I do _real_ work. I got powerful friends, and you are _nothing,_ do you hear me? _Nothing!"_

As they turned a corner, the furious tension went out of Bruce's shoulders like a coat being shrugged off. "We've got him rattled," Bruce said in a perfectly conversational voice. "Did you see how he reacted to my yelling at him? He flinched a lot more when you pulled out that bolt. He knows it's damning evidence."

"Oh," said Clark with relief. "I thought you were really angry for a minute there."

Bruce shot him a quick, opaque look. "I had a trainer tell me once that anger uncontrolled is a blade turned inward. Only anger controlled is a weapon worth using."

Clark contemplated that for a moment. "You had some unorthodox trainers," he said after a while.

Bruce's chuckle was a thin and awkward sound; Clark realized it was the first time he had laughed since everything fell apart. "I suppose I did," he said.

**: : :**

"Lt. Gordon is busy at the moment. May I have your name and reason for visiting?"

"Would you tell him Bruce Wayne wants to see him?"

The receptionist gave Bruce a dubious look. "The billionaire?"

Bruce's smile was a flash of teeth, perfunctory even for him. "We have the same name," he said.

The receptionist stood and went to one of the cubicles. In the hubbub and bustle of the Gotham police station, Clark couldn't hear what she said, but the inhabitant of the cubicle leaned his chair back sharply and looked at Bruce for a long moment. He had a reddish-brown mustache that was the only notable feature on an otherwise bland face, but when he came over to them Clark could see that the eyes behind the thick glasses were both weary and surprisingly gentle. 

"Mr. Wayne," he said, extending his hand. "I've...seen you on television. My daughter is a big fan. And this must be Clark Kent--if that is your real name," he added with a smile. He was still looking at Bruce as he shook hands with Clark. "I'm aware that many of you go by a stage name."

"It's my real name, sir," Clark reassured him. "And we have some questions we need to ask you."

Gordon ushered them into a conference room, and Clark showed him the bolt while Bruce explained what had gone before. Gordon listened to their story, then removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, grimacing.

"I'm afraid that isn't going to get you very far, boys," he said.

"It's evidence--"

"--not much evidence," Gordon said. "And Tony Zucco is big business. He's got powerful friends. Politicians. Policemen. People who can get things done."

"Or not done," said Clark.

"Or not done," echoed Gordon wearily. He looked at Bruce. "Even the real Bruce Wayne doesn't have that kind of power right now. He's been away too long. Money alone doesn't do much without the right friends in high places."

"Whereas all I have is an observant friend and an honest policeman."

"Hey," said Gordon, "Don't let anyone catch you calling me that." His smile was rueful.

"But we do know someone with those kinds of connections," said Bruce. He nodded to Gordon. "Thank you." He grabbed Clark's arm. "Time to go back to work."

"Mr. Wayne."

Bruce turned back at the door. Jim Gordon nodded at him.

"Good luck to both of you."

**: : :**

"You want me to just _ignore_ it?" Luthor's voice carried down the hall, reaching Clark and Bruce well before they entered the common room of the Wayne Auditorium. "You want me to pretend it didn't happen? Or do you want me to cancel the next two--three--four--how many shows? Are you willing to go without a salary while we all go hold hands and go through the five stages of grief together?"

Barda's face was pale, but she stood her ground. "I think it's ghoulish to make money off a tragedy like this."

Luthor started to say something, then snapped his mouth shut. After a moment he scrubbed at his face and said, "I think it will help some of us."

"Wayne, Kent," snapped Barda as she saw them come in, "Tell Luthor he must halt this mad plan."

"What mad plan?" said Clark. Bruce had spoken hardly at all since they left Duffy Construction.

"He wishes us to shoot promos where we talk about what the Graysons meant to us," Barda snarled, "To air on the Jumbotron during the show tonight. To put our grief on display to sell tickets."

"These people are coming to the show whether we do it or not," Luthor said. "I do not intend to treat it like any other night. It is not like any other night. It is not business as usual. You are not required to cut a promo--"

"--and many of us will not," Barda said, crossing her arms. Behind her, a few people--Oliver Queen, Hal Jordan, John Corben, Pamela Isley--were nodding.

"--but you _will_ all come out to the ramp at the beginning of the show and pay your respects," Luthor said, in a voice brittle as ice. "You all owe John and Mary that much."

Barda looked at Clark and Bruce in appeal.

"Where's Dick?" said Bruce as if he hadn't heard any of it. Maybe he hadn't.

"He and Scott went to get some lunch. Things were getting unpleasant here." She shot Luthor a venomous look.

"I checked with the boy," said Luthor. "He said our plans for this evening were--"

"--as if he cares about some stupid show! He'd say anything to get you to leave him alone!"

Luthor crossed his arms and glared up at her. "Mercy," he said. "Get a list of who's willing to record something for this evening's show. We're going forward with it."

"Yes sir," said Mercy.

"I'll be in my office," Luthor snapped, and turned on his heel to leave.

"Can we talk with you?" Bruce said in a low voice as he passed by. 

Luthor shot him a look, then nodded once.

**: : :**

The damning bolt gleamed on Luthor's desk. As Clark finished talking he looked down at it as if it were venomous. "I'll fire Zucco," he said. "He'll never work for us again. We'll find someone else for tonight's show."

He was reaching for his phone when Bruce spoke for the first time: "We want more than that." Luthor stopped with the phone in the hand and looked at him, waiting. "Criminal negligence. Involuntary manslaughter. Tampering with evidence. There's enough there to put him away, and we want it done," Bruce said. "We want justice."

Luthor looked at him, unblinking. "You said the police were uncooperative. Told you that Zucco had friends in high places."

"And you had dinner with Mayor Hill and Councilman Thorne two nights ago," said Bruce. "You're constantly working with politicians to make sure wrestling doesn't fall under the same regulations as actual sports. Don't tell me you don't have connections."

For a long moment they were both entirely still. Then Luthor said, very carefully: "I will fire Tony Zucco. But that is where it ends."

Bruce inhaled sharply and Clark saw his fists clench. "You're afraid that Zucco will claim he was only responding to your constant demands that he work faster and cut corners. He'll call in Duffy to testify that you were always hounding your workers to do it quicker. You're afraid you'll get dragged into a messy legal battle and a P.R. nightmare."

"Not good for business," Luthor said.

"I don't give a _damn_ about business," Bruce snarled. "Don't you even care that two people are _dead_ and--"

"--all the lawsuits in the world will not bring them back," Luthor said through gritted teeth. "John and Mary were working for my father before I was born. I grew up with them on the road. So don't you _dare_ \--" He broke off Clark saw his jaw muscles tighten as he swallowed hard. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and controlled once more. "It's true, you don't give a damn about business. And that's why you work for me." He met Bruce's gaze squarely. "You can't change the past, Bruce," he said. "No matter how angry you get."

Bruce's face went white. Clark got a glimpse of his eyes as he turned and left the office without another word.

"I believe I've made myself clear," said Luthor, meeting Clark's eyes and pointing with his chin toward the door.

"You have, yes," said Clark. Luthor went to scoop up the bolt, but Clark was there before him, plucking it from the table. He went to the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. "Lex," he said.

Luthor looked up from his phone at the sound of his first name.

"I think Bruce is right, that you're afraid of a lawsuit. Afraid of being accused of being responsible. But I think the real problem is," he said, "that you're afraid that you actually _are_ to blame for John and Mary's deaths."

The door swung closed, shutting out Luthor's face, and Clark knew two things in that moment. The first was that he he was right.

The second was that Lex Luthor was never going to forgive him for saying it.

**: : :**

"He's in the locker room with Dick," Selina said before Clark could say anything.

"Dick said he wanted to talk to him alone," said Waylon, slapping another card down on his solitaire game. "We all cleared out."

Clark edged toward the locker-room door, concerned but unwilling to eavesdrop on Dick's grief. He hoped Bruce was able to console him, able to give him some comfort in--

There was a sharp _clang_ of metal and a muffled yelp of pain from beyond the door, and Clark charged into the locker room without thinking.

Dick had Bruce in a standing side headlock, his face contorted and his arm wrapped around Bruce's neck as Bruce kicked wildly. 

"That's good," Bruce was saying, quite calmly even as he seemed to be flailing to escape. "Good angle. Now toss me left, and really sell how heavy I am."

Dick heaved and Bruce staggered across the room, coming up hard against the lockers again. "He won't let me wrestle!" Dick yelled, and dragged his forearm across his face roughly. "He'll let me come out tonight and talk, but he won't let me wrestle anyone! It's not fair!"

Bruce nodded slowly, straightening to lean against the lockers with his arms crossed. Clark started to step back, out of the room, but the motion caught Bruce's eye and he turned to look at him; Clark froze. Then Bruce nodded slightly and tilted his head: _You're okay. Come in._

Feeling oddly warmed by the permission, Clark stepped further into the locker room.

"I need to get in the ring," Dick was saying, his voice hoarse. "And the bastard won't let me wrestle."

"He's right," Bruce said, and Dick jerked his head up to glare at him. "No one wants to be the person who risks hurting you tonight, Dick. No one--no one could bear it."

Dick scrubbed at his face with his hands. "I hadn't thought of that," he said, his voice muffled. "But Bruce--I need to get out there. I need to--to do _something_."

"I understand. And you will," Bruce said. ""But right now, the people who care about you need you to be safe."

"I won't be treated like I'm made of spun glass."

"It's just for tonight," Clark cut in, leaning against the locker next to Bruce. "Trust me, I won't go easy on you if I get booked against you next week." This earned him a watery smile. "But not tonight, Dick. Just...let your friends treat you like a kid one more time."

After a moment, Dick nodded. "I'll go tell him," he said.

As he passed by them, Bruce put his hand out and caught Dick's shoulder. "I know this doesn't mean much," he said, "But...let me know if you need anything. We're here for you."

Dick clasped his hand. "It means a lot," he said. "To have someone there."

As the door closed behind him, Clark turned Bruce away from the lockers and pulled his shirt up to look at his back. "You're going to have a spectacular bruise there," he said. "You shouldn't have let him throw you so hard."

Bruce hissed a little as Clark touched the swath of purpling flesh. "He needed to throw something harder than that, but it was the best I could do."

His skin was warm; Clark let his hands rest against it gently for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, then forced himself to pull them away. "You didn't tell him, did you?" Bruce shook his head. "And I don't think Luthor's going to."

"I will. Now didn't seem a good time. Need to wait and see what happens next."

"What happens next? We're shut down in every direction: Zucco owns the police, I'm betting the newspapers too, and Luthor won't help at all. Nothing's going to happen next."

Bruce tugged down his shirt and stretched, wincing just a bit. Then he turned and smiled at Clark: it wasn't Billionaire Brucie's fake smile, but there was nothing warm or amused about it at all.

"Next," he said as he pulled out his phone, "You and I are having lunch together."

"What?"

Bruce dialed a number and waited a moment, then said, "Clark Kent and I are having lunch and an interesting conversation at Gino's in fifteen minutes. You might want to overhear it."

He dropped the phone into his pocket and looked at Clark again. "We're going to get some pizza, talk things over. Like friends do.

And the Wrestling _Planet_ is going to get its biggest scoop ever."


	22. Truth and...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the tribute for the Graysons, Billionaire Brucie and Country Clark Kent put on a show.

_ “I knew then why I needed [the dirt sheets],” Hart said. “It wasn’t a story line, it wasn’t pretend. Wrestling writes its own publicity. I was always grateful for someone allowing the truth to come out.” _

"Why didn't you _tell_ us?" Barda sounded more confused than angry as she faced down Lex Luthor in the common room. Behind her, Clark could see other wrestlers--some shaking their heads, some stifling grins, some looking annoyed.

"Look, I'm very busy today, and--"

Barda grabbed Luthor's shoulder as he tried to brush by; Luthor looked at her hand and then at her face and she let go. "But if you'd said something--"

"If you think it's tacky to perform at a memorial program, you think it's tacky," Luthor said. "What difference does it make where the proceeds are going?"

"It makes a big difference!" 

Luthor shrugged, turned his back and walked away while Barda stared after him. 

"I don't understand him," she said, mystified.

"What happened?" asked Clark.

"All the money from tonight is going into a fund for Dick," said Barda.

"Minus our paychecks, of course," put in Jack Napier, looking up from polishing his hood. Everyone looked at him. "I'm just saying, we're still going to get paid."

"I don't understand--why didn't he just say so?" Barda shook her head. "I have to go talk to the bookers, see if they can still fit in a match for me tonight." She threw her hands up in disgust as she walked away. "I work for a megalomaniac control freak philanthropist!"

The show was only four hours away.

"Mr. Kent--Mr. Kent!" A harried-looking Jimmy Olsen grabbed his arm. "You haven't been here all day, we need you to shoot your promo for the tribute tonight. You're shooting something, right?"

"I...yes, I planned to." He hadn't had time to think about it, between running between Duffy, Zucco, and Gordon, but apparently he was out of time.

"OK, sit here." Jimmy led him to a corner with a black backdrop, sat him down in a chair. "Let me get the cameras together."

And he darted off, leaving Clark with nothing to do but sit and wait. And remember his lunch date--no, not date, just lunch--with Bruce.

Bruce had insisted Clark sit with his back to the door. "Plausible deniability," he said. "If you don't see the spy, Luthor can't weasel their identity out of you. No offense, Clark, but you're a terrible liar."

Clark had sighed, skipped the denials, and ordered a pepperoni pizza. 

While they were waiting for their food, the little bells on the door jingled. Bruce's expression didn't change, but soon he started talking--ostensibly to Clark, who responded where appropriate, but his recap of the days investigations was both too succinct and too detailed to be conversational. "Can I see that bolt again?" Bruce asked. "This would be really useful evidence against Zucco, if only the police would pay any attention to us," he said, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. He put it down on the table and contemplated it wordlessly for a time.

Clark resisted the impulse to turn around as Bruce displayed the bolt and instead focused on his pizza. Eventually some almost-invisible tension went out of Bruce's shoulders; behind Clark, the door bells jingled again and Bruce picked up a piece of pizza in turn. "Out of our hands now," he said, looking down at his food. "So." He looked up with the air of someone dismissing unwelcome thoughts. "Let's talk about our match tonight!"

They had walked back to the auditorium together, still discussing moves and strategies. "You go get ready," said Bruce. "I...I need to talk to Dick again. He should hear about this from a friend before it shows up anywhere else."

"I can--" Clark started, but Bruce shook his head. 

"No, I think this has to be me, Clark. I can't...really explain why, but it has to be me." He had shrugged. "Maybe more for my sake than his, but there it is."

And now he was off talking to Dick and Clark was stuck here in this chair and he _still_ wasn't sure what he was going to say about the Graysons. But Jimmy was back and the cameras were focused on him, and the red light went on and he suddenly knew exactly what to say.

"I remember the first show I ever saw. Green Lantern was there, and Vandal Savage, and Dr. Mid-Nite--all the greats. But it was when I saw John and Mary Grayson's entrance that I knew I'd be a wrestling fan for the rest of my life." He looked into the camera, imagining it was Dick's eyes, talking to him rather than the audience. "When they did the Tightrope Stunner move--well, it was magic. They haven't done that move in years, but it was…" He shook his head, remembering. "John would grab his opponent's hand and jump up onto the top rope, then walk it like a tightrope to the corner, dragging his opponent with him before he dropped an elbow on them." He pointed toward the roof, the hand signal that John had always done to indicate to the audience he was about to pull off the Stunner. "And when they were tag-teaming, Mary would walk the top rope in the opposite direction and do this amazing flying kick and it was just--wow. _Wow._ " 

He realized his voice had climbed into an almost childish enthusiasm, decided not to try and check it; it was the greatest tribute to the Graysons he could give. As an actual wrestler, he'd come to appreciate the move even more, especially the difficulty of Mary's role--for she had to walk the top rope all by herself, while John could have help balancing from his "victim" as they walked together. But he couldn't explain that to the audience, of course, so he merely said, "They were everything that was beautiful and graceful and good about wrestling to me, and I'll always be sorry I didn't get more of a chance to work with them. But I know they left behind their greatest legacy in their son, and we'll always remember their genius."

The red light winked off and Jimmy grinned at him and wiped his eyes. "Good job, Mr. Kent."

It hadn't really been good enough, but it was all he had. He nodded at Jimmy and managed a smile. "Thank you."

Now there was nothing for it but to wait for the show to start and wonder what the fallout was going to be from lunch.

**: : :**

Clark could hear the buzz of the audience: muted tonight, but still electric in a different way. The Gorilla Position was full of wrestlers, including Dick Grayson at Lex Luthor's side, pale but composed. "You told him?" Clark murmured to Bruce. 

Bruce nodded.

"He isn't going to do anything rash, like...I don't know…"

"Denounce Luthor on live television?" Bruce's smile was thin. "No. He was angry, but he said pulling something like that and hurting all the people he'd grown up with wasn't something his parents would be proud of."

Clark's eyebrows went up. "Good kid."

"One of the best," said Bruce. "But not really a kid anymore."

Clark looked closely at Bruce. "Are _you_ all right?" Bruce had refused to do a video promo ("I don't want to break character") and there was something about his eyes--

"I'll be fine once we're wrestling," Bruce said, his voice tight. "I just--I don't handle non-kayfabe very well in situations like this."

Mercy Graves stepped forward. "All right everyone," she said, her voice crisp and professional, "We're on in three...two...one…"

And then the employees of the DCW went out onto the ramp together.

The crowd was nearly silent as Luthor addressed them, speaking of the tragic accident and the grief they all felt. He spoke simply and concisely, his voice free of any of the bombast of "Lex Luthor, CEO," and then handed the mic to Dick.

Clark heard Dick swallow; the mic picked it up and it echoed around the hushed auditorium. "Thank you all for being here tonight," he said. " I know my parents would be honored--" His voice cracked and he broke off, started again, "--would be honored that so many of you were here tonight. They loved the world of wrestling, and they loved the DCW, and they loved all of you fans." A ripple ran through the crowd, not applause but a kind of wordless support. "So thank you for being here for them, and for us, and for--for me," he finished, and handed the mic quickly back to Luthor.

The Jumbotron flickered to life as the sounds of the Graysons' theme music filled the hall: images of them beaming and smiling and performing. Clark recognized Mary's debut in her white costume from that night in Kansas City so long ago, and his eyes filled with tears.

Something seized his arm and he looked over to see Bruce, his face a white oval in the darkness, his lips moving slightly, his eyes gazing unseeingly up at the Jumbotron. He looked like he was going to pass out, and without thinking Clark put his arm around him. Bruce leaned against him for a moment, but as the tribute came to an end he pushed away, his face back to the polite Billionaire Brucie mask as the wrestlers went back up the ramp and backstage and the show began in earnest. 

"Our promo is in ten minutes," he said when Clark gave him a look. "We're focusing on that."

The first of the interview spots was airing on the Jumbotron: Alan Scott, the original Green Lantern, his golden hair streaked with white, telling the story of how John and Mary first met. "It was love at first headlock," he said, smiling fondly.

The first match: Sinestro and Hal Jordan. Luthor was bringing out the big stars first.

Jimmy Olsen was there with the video cameras, getting ready to shoot Clark and Bruce's promo. He shot them a thumbs-up and Bruce nodded before the cameras went live.

As always, he went from serious and stern to animated and callow as if someone were flipping a switch. "What?" he said as if the cameras were catching them in the middle of an argument, "Come on. I know you hate me, but it's for the kid."

"It's for your ego, Mr. Wayne," Clark snapped. 

" _And_ for the kid." Brucie pulled a golden checkbook from his jacket and waved it at Clark. "Five thousand dollars to the Grayson Fund if you wrestle me." Clark paused, considering, and was opening his mouth to agree when Bruce added, "And ten thousand if you win."

Clark blinked at him, legitimately startled at the deviation from script, but then forged ahead. "I'm only doing it because I admired the Graysons," he said warningly.

"What _ev_ er," Brucie said breezily, and walked off, leaving Clark to stare after him as the camera closed in on his face for a long moment.

"What the heck? We just barely managed to scrape together that five!" Clark ran after Bruce as the camera light blinked off.

"No problem," Bruce said, continuing down the hall. "My foster father works for a guy who's loaded, a real fat cat, and I think he can convince him to donate the extra five. It's chump change to him, and he's got a soft spot for kids in need of some help."

"Oh." Clark filed the new data away, then made some quick connections. "Did he--did he help you?"

"Clark." Bruce spun to face him. "Do I _really_ look like the kind of person who needed a lot of support and assistance in my life? Me?" He smiled, but there was an almost feverish glitter to it, a brittle edge.

"Sometimes, yes," said Clark. Bruce's smile faltered a fraction. "And...sometimes you still do."

Bruce's smile did one of those complicated shifts that Clark felt would require a slow-motion replay to capture the full nuances of, going from bright and false to rueful and affectionate. "Clark," he said. He put a hand on Clark's shoulder and squeezed slightly. "Thank you."

And he whirled and was gone, leaving Clark unsure exactly what he was being thanked for.

**: : :**

On the Jumbotron, the pre-recorded message by Waylon Jones was running. He was reading a poem he had written from a slip of paper, his voice halting, tears slipping down his un-made-up face unheeded. The audience murmured in sympathy.

"The bookers might have to turn him face for a while," said a voice at his elbow. Selina Kyle was there, watching Jones. "It'll be hard to root against Killer Croc with this fresh in their memories." She glanced at Clark, took in his expression, and patted his arm. "Sorry, darling. I know that's cold-blooded of me. Old habits die hard. But to be honest, Waylon would love a turn as a face. Most people enjoy being heels, but some people just don't thrive."

Clark ruffled her newly-blond hair. "And you? Playing the victimized secretary? Whatever happened to the ruthless jewel thief we all know and love?"

" _Love?_ " She batted her eyes at him and smirked. "Mmm. I've always been a bit of tweener anyway. Never a monster heel like Waylon." The footage was coming to an end; she smiled at him. "That's my cue to get ready. Enjoy your match with Bruce," she said, sauntering off.

**: : :**

_If I had known,_ Clark would think later. _If I had realized…_

They hadn't had time to plan anything intricate, so they fell back on old, familiar moves: simple grapples and holds interspersed with their signature throws and aerial moves. Brucie got Clark in the Cash Clutch, his arms around Clark's neck from behind, bending his head back, and Clark arced his back and grimaced convincingly until Bruce threw him across the ring and into the turnbuckle. As Clark "shook off" the impact, giving Bruce time to set up his next move, he looked up and realized that Bruce was watching him. Not gloating, not sneering, not any of the vast repertoire of disdainful facial expressions he employed against his rivals. Just...watching him.

Clark staggered forward into a flurry of martial-arts blows, the "rich-boy judo" that Brucie liked to use, launching his own counterattack and grappling Brucie to the mat. "Something wrong?" he breathed into Bruce's ear under cover of the grapple.

"No." Bruce's voice was calm. "Kick to my ribs then a moonsault." He writhed out of Clark's grip, leaving no time to press further; Clark leveled a good kick at Brucie's ribs, then leapt onto the ropes and back-flipped from them, angling to land across Bruce's supine body.

In midair, a frozen eternal moment, he caught once again a glimpse of Bruce's face: looking up at him, not selling his pain or fear, not doing anything but watching him.

He landed across Bruce's torso, making just enough contact to be convincing, letting his knees and elbows catch most of his weight, then swiveled to pin Bruce once again. "Take it home?" he murmured. There were only a few minutes left for the match; it was almost time for him to pull off the hurricanrana that would knock Brucie out and end it.

Brucie struggled wildly against the pin; Bruce leaned close and said "We need to finish with the Tightrope Stunner."

Clark managed to resist the impulse to stare at him. Narratively, he was right, it would be the best possible _homage._ But…

"Are you kidding? I can't walk the rope like him, I don't have the skill, I--"

Billionaire Brucie reversed the pin and slammed Country Clark facefirst onto the mat, wrapping his arms around his neck in a stranglehold. "You _can_ do it," Bruce said into his ear, his voice hoarse. "Because I'll be there. At your side every step of the way, Clark."

For a crazy moment Clark suddenly wanted to turn in his grip and see his expression, see what his face looked like when he said that. Because--

No time to dwell on it, he had to break the pin and get to his feet. A quick, simple kick and Brucie staggered to the ropes, leaning back against them, winded.

Time to do it right.

Clark stood in the middle of the ring and raised his hand to start making the lariat motion that signaled he was about to pull off his hurricanrana (he had told Creative that cowboys and farm boys were two different things; they hadn't cared). The crowd's roar picked up in anticipation, and then Clark paused in mid-motion, looking at Bruce.

Bruce had that look on his face that wasn't a smile, but was a satisfaction beyond smiling: _I knew you'd know what to do._

Then instead of his own gesture, Clark pointed to the rafters, the Graysons' signal for the Tightrope Stunner.

The crowd...didn't get louder, but its roar changed sharply in timbre, fiercely approving, with a strange sorrowful edge. Clark held the gesture a moment longer and felt his eyes stinging as he looked upward, dragged his forearm across his face. No time for tears if he was going to pull this off.

He advanced on the hapless Billionaire Brucie, who was holding his hands up to ward him off, his face twisted with pleading horror. "No no no no no," Brucie begged, and Bruce's hand clasped his as he grabbed it, firm and solid. 

Clark clambered to the top of the turnbuckle and began to walk across the rope.

There was a reason no one but the Graysons ever did this move: the top rope wasn't taut, but elastic, and it sagged and swayed beneath him; for a moment Clark was sure he was about to pull off nothing more than an ignominious plunge to the floor. But Bruce, while pretending to struggle against his grip, compensated for the rope and balanced his weight, keeping him steady. Step by step, they crossed the ring together.

After what seemed like an eternity, Clark made it to the far turnbuckle. Giddy with relief, he collapsed into a dropped elbow, letting Bruce catch his weight and go down under him.

"Perfect," said Bruce as Clark heard the referee counting above them. "Beautiful."

And it was. They were.

_If I had only known…_

**: : :**

Dick threw his arms around him as they went into the common room. "Thank you," he said, his voice muffled.

"It was Bruce's idea," Clark felt honor-bound to say.

Dick's shoulders shook in a hiccoughing laugh. "You have to stop giving him all the credit."

"Only what he deserves." Clark patted the back of Dick's head and Dick squeezed him once more and released him.

The show was heading toward its conclusion; Lex Luthor was on the screen now, pale against the black background, delivering his pre-recorded promo.

"The Graysons were more than employees to me, they were like family. I grew up with them on the road, and they were invaluable support when my own father passed. I know that they'll live on in all our memories, in the mentoring they gave to so many DCW employees, and most importantly, in the spirit of their son." He nodded, gravely. "Thank you to all of you for being here with us tonight as we grieve. Good night."

The screen went dark.

"Show's over," Luthor's voice came from the door, and everyone turned to find him standing there. "Good work. You all did very good work." He looked at Bruce. "I assume you're good for that ten thousand dollars, Wayne?"

Bruce pulled his golden prop checkbook out of his pocket, scribbled out a check, ripped it off and handed it to Luthor, who pocketed it without looking at it. 

"Thank you" he said drily. "We leave for Akron in the morning, so everyone should get some rest."

Then he met Bruce's, then Clark's, very deliberately. "Oh, and Wayne. Kent. I'd like to see you in my office," he said.

He smiled, once, a switchblade flicker with no humor behind it, before turning and walking away.


	23. ...Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lex Luthor responds to Bruce and Clark's actions, and Clark finds the response hard to accept.

_ Later on in life I was one guy on the road, another at home and yet another in the ring. Which one is truly me? They all are. --Bret Hart _

Luthor swiveled his laptop so Clark and Bruce could see it as they walked in. Below the familiar red masthead of the _Wrestling Planet_ was the headline: _Graysons: Criminal Negligence? by Lois Lane._

Below it was a closeup picture of the broken bolt, lying on the formica table of Gino's Pizza.

"I suppose you think you're quite clever," Luthor said. His voice was like a well into which a rock had been dropped. An empty well.

"We went to lunch after we met with you," Bruce said. "I admit, I was a little hot under the collar, I might have talked more loudly than I should have. He doesn't know who your leak is," Bruce added quickly as Luthor's eyes flicked to Clark. "He had nothing to do with this."

Clark had thought Bruce was protecting the spy by averting Clark's gaze. Now he wasn't so sure. "I had plenty to do with it," he said, stepping forward.

Bruce glared at him. _Stop being noble_ , his gaze snapped as clearly as if he had said it aloud.

Luthor's eyes were back on Bruce, unwavering. "I know who's responsible," he said. He snapped the laptop shut and tapped the cover lightly with his fingers. "I wanted to let you know that I've already called the police and asked them what I can do to help in their case against Zucco Construction. The DCW will be cooperating to the fullest extent."

"It's the right thing to do and you know it," Bruce said.

"Also, I've just gotten off the phone with a friend, Okata Heino, perhaps you've heard of him."

"Promoter for New Nippon Puroresu," Bruce said. "I know him. Gardner works for him now."

"He said he had openings for two wrestlers there. I've told him that you and Dick Grayson would be happy to work with him for a while."

 _"What?"_ Now Clark did step forward. "You can't just send Bruce and Dick off to Japan like--"

Luthor looked keenly interested. "I can't? What a very intriguing opinion."

"You're just punishing him for--"

"--How can I be punishing him for something the claims he didn't do?" Luthor shrugged and looked at Bruce, who had remained silent. "You know you're getting off easy, Wayne."

"And Dick?" Clark snarled. "Are you too ashamed to meet his eyes, so you have to exile him too?"

Luthor hissed a breath between his teeth, but he didn't take his eyes from Bruce. "Japan is an ideal place for a smaller wrestler to hone his craft. Grayson needs to have a chance to stretch his own wings, out from the shadow of his parents. Someplace he can be more than an object of pity, a sad little orphan boy."

"And he'll need a mentor," said Bruce. Luthor looked at him. Bruce nodded, once. "Sounds fair."

"More than fair," agreed Luthor. "And this way I don't have to look at your smug, self-righteous face for a while either." Another smile, like a stiletto between the ribs. "See? I can have more than one motivation at the same time. Aren't I complex?"

"And Clark?"

"I'm thinking about it," said Luthor. "We'll see how he does without his guardian angel here watching over him." Clark opened his mouth, intercepted Bruce's look, and closed it again. "Now go away, I've got to talk to my lawyers."

* * *

"I can't believe you're just going to let him do this to you!"

Bruce stopped in the hallway and looked at Clark for a long moment. There was affection in his face, and exasperation. "He's right, I'm getting off easy. There was a good chance I'd lose my job over that stunt."

"But--"

"Did you really think there wouldn't be consequences for forcing Luthor's hand?" He shook his head. "Did you really think there wouldn't be a price to pay? And did you really think I wasn't willing to pay it, whatever it was?" His voice was gentle but inexorable.

Clark found himself without anything at all to say; some part of him truly had believed that Luthor would come to understand this was the right thing to do, that he couldn't possibly resent it once he realized justice was on their side. And now...

"It's okay, Clark," Bruce said. "I'm still under contract to the DCW. Luthor didn't fire me, and that means he wants me back once he cools down. It's not forever. If the investigation of Zucco leads to a trial, he'll have to bring us back to testify anyway. _It's not forever,"_ he repeated, and put his hand on Clark's shoulder, shook him slightly. "It's--"

The locker room door burst open and Dick came barrelling out, and Bruce stepped away from Clark and turned to him. "What happened?" Dick said breathlessly. "Are you guys in trouble, please tell me that you're not--"

"--nothing bad's happened," Bruce said over Dick's anxious voice. He smiled, and some of the tension went out of Dick's shoulders. "Luthor's just decided he wants you away from the paparazzi until this all blows over, and so you and I are going to go to Japan to work for a while."

Dick's eyes widened. "Japan? Really? That's--that's awesome!" He beamed at them both. "I've always wanted to work over there, or in Mexico--and working with _you_ there--" He broke off, and the worry crept back into his eyes. "Are you sure Luthor said that? I thought he'd be really mad at you!"

Clark forced himself to chuckle. "Oh, he wasn't thrilled. But I think deep down he knows it's the right thing and he wants what's best for you."

"What about you, Clark? Will you be coming to Japan with us? That would be so fun, all three of us there--"

Bruce clapped Dick on the back. "Just you and me, champ. Clark's going to stay here and hold down the fort until we get back. Right, Clark?"

Clark's grin was starting to hurt his face. "Well, someone's got to keep an eye on Darkseid while you two are off exploring the world."

"It's going to be great, Dick," Bruce said. "It's time for me to get past the Billionaire Brucie gimmick, and this is my big chance, since Luthor won't want me to use the DCW gimmick when I'm abroad. To be honest, the rich-boy schtick is getting old. I've got some ideas--I've had them for a long time now, but there's never been a good chance to put them into practice. But Japan's got a lot of masked wrestlers, and I've wanted to try something with a mask, based on--" He broke off and looked, for a moment, slightly embarrassed, "Well, it sounds silly when I say it out loud, but I think it'll work in execution. How would you feel about being part of a tag team, Dick?"

Dick made a wordless spluttering noise of delight. " _Tag team_? With you?"

"I think we'd play well off each other, and I think the crowds there would eat it up. It's a good springboard to your solo career, too."

Dick looked like he might well burst into spontaneous dance. "Oh my God, can I use that persona we talked about? The Robin one?"

Bruce pointed at him. "That's exactly the one I had in mind. I think they will _love_ it in Japan. Don't you, Clark?"

"Oh, without a doubt." Clark had no idea what the Robin gimmick was, but anything that made Dick beam like that was going to get over big. "You two are going to huge there."

From then the conversation was mostly dominated by Dick's happy chattering about costuming, possible names for moves, all the intricate details of his new gimmick. It was clear he'd been thinking about these things for a while; maybe it really would be better for him to have a chance away from the DCW to be his own person, Clark thought.

Bruce was mostly listening, nodding and smiling as Dick outlined some very essential point. Maybe he needed some time away as well: away from Luthor and the DCW and the whole billionaire schtick, away from the same old routine.

Apparently everything was going to work out for the best after all. They had gotten lucky. Clark realized his nails were biting into his palms and he uncurled them carefully, ignoring the dull ache they left behind, and kept smiling.

* * *

The next few weeks passed all too quickly. There were no more matches between Country Clark Kent and Billionaire Brucie, only a hastily-cut promo in which Brucie explained that he was going on a voyage of self-discovery to "find himself." The _Planet_ trumpeted about "Wayne's Banishment," but as he and Dick prepared and packed, it seemed much more a vacation than an exile.

"What do you think, Clark? Bruce says I won't be able to get Almond Joy or Twix in Japan, how many do you think I should pack?"

Dick was sitting in the locker room, checking items off a list. Clark couldn't help but laugh at his earnestly distressed face. "I'll send you some, I promise."

"Really? Gosh, thanks. And I have to pack warm clothes, Bruce says we'll climb Mt. Fuji for the New Year and watch the sunrise. Doesn't that sound keen?"

"It sure does." Clark reached out and ruffled his hair, relieved that Dick had apparently remained cheerfully oblivious to his distress. Apparently he was a better liar than Bruce had given him credit for.

"I can't believe tonight is really my last match before we leave," Dick sighed. "Tomorrow morning you guys head off to Metropolis and Bruce and I head to Japan. Has he given you his Japanese phone number yet?"

"No. I...haven't seen much of him the last few weeks. He's been pretty busy."

"Oh. Hey, Clark?"

Clark tugged on the ridiculous straw hat someone in costuming had decided he needed to wear. His match with Metallo was coming up soon. "Yes?"

"I just wanted you to know I'll do my best to keep an eye on him while we're in Japan," Dick said. "Do you have any advice?"

"Huh?"

"You know," Dick said. "How to get him to eat more regularly, how to keep him actually talking to people now and then."

"Wait, he doesn't eat well when I'm not around?"

"Gosh, I guess you wouldn't know, would you?" Dick said. "That time you tore your hamstring and had to take time off, we all had to work to make sure he ate _anything,_ it seemed. And when your Ma was sick and you went back to Kansas for a week, I'm not sure he talked to _anyone_ the whole time, except to snap at them when they made mistakes. How do you manage it?"

"Oh." Clark groped for an answer. "I guess… just listen to him? Let him talk about wrestling a lot, he likes that. I think you'll be fine--you love the business, that makes a big difference."

Dick nodded solemnly. "I'll do my best, I promise!"

"Uh...thanks. I'll miss both of you," Clark said. He glanced at the clock. "Time to get moving. Metallo's not going to beat himself, you know."

He gave Dick a hug and headed out of the locker room, through the winding passages toward the stage entrance.

"I wanted to give you this."

Clark jumped as Bruce seemed to materialize out of the shadows. "Give me what?" he snapped, surprise one of many emotions sharpening his voice.

"Remember how you stayed at my place in Metropolis once? Stupid to leave it empty. Thought I'd loan you the key while I was gone. You'd be doing me a favor, stopping by now and then, keeping an eye on the place." Bruce held out a keychain with a single key on it. His eyes were fixed on the wall behind Clark's head. "Feel free to crash there when you're in Metropolis." Clark didn't move to take the key, and Bruce cleared his throat. "I'm not good with goodbyes," he said. "I'll keep in touch."

"No you won't," said Clark, and Bruce's eyes snapped to meet his, a sharp line between his eyebrows. "You know damn well you won't keep in touch--you didn't even keep talking to me when we weren't in an angle together. You haven't even shared your new number with me, and you never respond to email."

"Clark--"

"--No!" Clark heard the hurt and anger in his voice, and struggled to even it out. It was possibly his last conversation with Bruce, he didn't want to sound angry, didn't want to end it with bitterness. But he couldn't, he just _couldn't_. "Look, I'm thrilled that you and Dick are going to have such a great opportunity, and I understand you're excited about the possibility of a cool new gimmick, but you can't expect me to be--to be _happy_ that I'm losing my partner, that I'm losing _you_."

There was something like panic in Bruce's eyes. "You're not losing me."

"You think I don't know why you're doing this now? I've got to get to my match, and at the end of it you'll be _gone_ , I know you will and you know you will, so you won't have to deal with any messy goodbyes, you can just slip away into the night and vanish, and--"

It happened so suddenly Clark didn't see it coming; without transition he was slammed up against the wall, Bruce's hands on his shoulders, one hip hard up against his, holding him in place.

"You think I'm excited? You think I'm _happy_?" Bruce's face was only inches away, pale and drawn and not at all happy. "Thrilled to be dismissed, sent away from--from just about everything that matters to me?" He pushed Clark up against the wall again, not gently. " _You're_ the one who's seemed just fine with all this, just going on as normal, like it isn't--" His voice broke. "Like you can bear it. Like it's not unbearable."

"That was for Dick," Clark said. "I didn't want him to--"

"--Yes," said Bruce.

"It's not," Clark said. "It's not bearable."

Bruce moved forward as if he was going to headbutt him. Clark braced himself, pulling in a breath--a breath that became a gasp as Bruce's mouth collided with his, sharp and bruising and warm. Clark felt Bruce's teeth against his lips, his own lips against Bruce's teeth, felt Bruce's tongue--

Clark pivoted and broke Bruce's grip on him, slamming his back up against the wall in turn and deepening the--it _was_ a kiss, wasn't it, this battering sweet clash? Whatever it was, he never wanted it to end, never.

Bruce grabbed a handful of his hair with one hand (disqualifying move in a match; Clark's whole body seemed to sing with it) and yanked him closer. Clark tasted blood, he growled something, he didn't know what, and it was his turn again to be thrown backwards into a wall as Bruce pressed the joyous assault, hands scrabbling against cinder blocks and against each others' bodies, each throwing the other off just enough to insist on being the one to seize and grasp and claim. Bruce bit at Clark's neck, his breath snarling against Clark's skin, but he left his guard down; Clark had leverage and he was going to throw Bruce down on the floor and--

A throat was cleared nearby and Bruce jumped backwards, swinging to glare at Killer Croc standing in the corridor. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of Bruce's mouth and his eyes were wild, and Croc held his hands up and backed up a step.

"Just wanted to let Kent know he was on in five. Didn't mean to interrupt your--brawl. Or whatever it was."

Bruce took a deep breath. "Take it," he said, and closed Clark's numb fingers over the key once more. "Catch you later."

And then he was running down the corridor and throwing open an emergency exit. Gone.

"Be interesting to see you guys try that move in the ring sometime," Croc noted as Clark started toward the stage on wobbly legs. "Might be tough to pull off without it looking like you're making out, though."

* * *

_Monday 23:49: That was something I've wanted for a while, by the way. There. I said it. --CK_

_Tuesday 01:28: No regrets. --CK_

_Tuesday 09:05: Still no regrets. --CK_

_Tuesday 13:48: Your plane is taking off in 30, so okay. You're bad with goodbyes, I get it. Let me know when you're back and we'll try that again. I hope. --CK_

Clark tossed the little silver key from one hand to another as the elevator rose to the sixth floor of Bruce's apartment building. Maybe Bruce had left a note for him. He imagined a piece of stationary sitting in the middle of that antiseptically neutral, personality-free set of beige boxes and snorted. Right. Maybe with roses and glitter on it, too.

He swung open the door, stepped inside, and stopped.

The wall facing the door (formerly bare) had a set of bright paintings framed on it: abstract triangles and squares in blues and yellows. It took Clark a moment to realize that they were of golden fields under an azure sky. Stepping forward, he saw that the spare, hard white couch had been replaced with a soft, deep leather sofa. There was a fleece throw tossed across it: red and blue.

The refrigerator was stocked with RC Cola (Clark had once complained about how hard it was to find RC on the road); the pantry with Art's and Mary's Hot Chips, Clark's favorite snack bars, and black liquorice whips. Clark remembered Bruce's face when he had seen Clark eating them: "No one likes black liquorice, Clark! No one!" and closed the doors with a gentle _click._

The bathroom had Clark's brand of shampoo and soap, and thick sunshine-yellow towels. The bedroom--

Clark snorted when he saw the garish Star Wars comforter spread across the bed in place of the industrially bland beige. On the walls were framed movie prints: _Blade Runner,_ _It's a Wonderful Life_ , _Vertigo_ , _The Wizard of Oz,_ _This is Spinal Tap._

The music system had two CDs sitting on top of it. Clark picked them up: unadorned discs, plain white, scribbled on with a bold hand: **Pre-Show** and **Post-Show**. A track list hastily added on the back. Clark looked at the artists: Bruce Springsteen, Led Zeppelin, Queen, The Who, David Bowie. He slipped the Post-Show CD into the player and pressed play, and the exuberant drums and horns of Adam Ant's "Goody Two Shoes" followed him into the kitchen:

_We don't follow fashion_  
 _That would be a joke_  
 _You know we're going to set them set them_  
 _So everyone can take note take note..._

The mix followed him around the apartment as he had a drink, checked _The Planet ("I'd gladly lose me to find you/I'd gladly give up all I had/To find you I'd suffer anything and be glad")_ , and answered his email. He took a shower, wrapped in music as comfortable as the soft towel _("Though nothing will keep us together/We could steal time, just for one day/We can be heroes, for ever and ever/What d'you say?")_.

There was no note. The whole apartment was a note.

He curled up between royal blue sheets that smelled faintly of Bruce's cologne, closed his eyes, and let the final track of the mix sing him to sleep:

_We mean to go on and on and on and on..._  
 _We are the champions, my friend_  
 _And we'll keep on fighting_  
 _Till the end…_

\---

You can listen to Bruce's mixes to Clark at 8tracks: [The Pre-Show Mix](http://8tracks.com/mithen/heroes-of-the-squared-circle-pre-show-mix) and [The Post-Show Mix](http://8tracks.com/mithen/heroes-of-the-squared-circle-post-show-mix)


	24. Make a Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark gets a request that brightens his time apart from Bruce.

_ Being a babyface even made me feel better as a person. I didn’t have to frown so much in public anymore, for one thing. No shit. I felt like a town sheriff or something, being seen out shaking hands and kissing babies (just kidding). People in public everywhere would pat me on the back and give me thumbs-up or slap me five. Yes, sir, babyface living was my kind of style; just call me Joe Public. --Joe Laurinitis _

The days dragged by: the same bus rides, the same training, the same banter and infighting among the wrestlers. Clark got put into an angle with the newest guy on the roster, Jean-Paul Valley, because one of the bookers apparently thought having a hayseed show a brainwashed vigilante assassin how to live a normal life was comedy gold. They shot promos where Country Clark introduced Azrael to pizza and beer (the full face mask made this something of a challenge), helped him do strength training while Azrael made pronouncements about the **weight** of **destiny** , and tried to fix him up with Poison Ivy. Hilarity ensued.

The days dragged by.

Updates came now and then from Dick, usually just a quick picture: the neon welter of Tokyo; Bruce getting hugged by Guy Gardner; a huge bowl of ramen with Bruce's hand hovering over it, holding a pair of chopsticks. One picture was of Bruce in nothing but a towel, his hair wet and tousled, his expression caught at the exact moment that "tired" began to shift into "what the hell are you doing?"

"Wait til u c his nu gimmick," one text read, making Clark smile--Bruce had lectured Dick about using text-speak in the past, but it was a losing battle. "So awesome."

A DVD arrived at the Metropolis apartment addressed to him, in an envelope covered with Japanese stamps and labeled in a familiar bold scrawl: "Thought you might be interested. Toss it in the cabinet when you're done with it." Clark popped it into the DVD player and soon was watching Japanese graphics zoom by as announcers chatted excitedly in a language he couldn't understand. But he understood the wailing guitars of the Warrior's entrance well enough, and felt a smile tugging at his cheeks as Guy emerged, his eyes wild as ever, yelling at his Japanese opponent in a mishmash of Japanese and English. The audience was surprisingly quiet, and Clark wondered if maybe Guy's gimmick wasn't getting over there. But then he executed a perfect spinning crucifix toss, and a heartfelt "Ooooh" rippled around the arena, followed by polite but enthusiastic applause.

The Warrior lost after a well-fought match and made his exit in a bluster of incoherently bi-lingual threats: " _Ore_ will crush your _karada_ into dust! Your _kokoro_ is no match for _ore no ki_ of great--of great _subarashii_...ness!" Clark saw young women covering their mouths to hide their delighted giggles and suspected Guy had plenty of fans in Japan.

The next match was between two people Clark didn't know, and he guiltily fast-forwarded through it to where the ring announcer was introducing a tag team of Japanese wrestlers in sky-blue tights that the audience hissed at earnestly. As they preened in the center of the ring, the announce called another name. Clark couldn't understand most of the introduction, but the announcer concluded with "Eru Murushierago to Robin!"

As Clark blinked at the screen, two figures walked out. One was clearly Dick Grayson in a modified version of the costume he had made for himself, with the addition of a black domino mask that hid his eyes but not his cheeky smile. The other--

The other had a familiar stride, but was wearing black tights. He was bare-chested, but his head was obscured by a black mask that hid his hair and covered the top half of his face. From it protruded two small ears. Behind him rippled a long black cape made of something so fine and silky that it billowed and wavered like smoke. Together he and Robin reached the stage: Robin vaulted over the ropes while the masked man climbed the steps and entered the ring purposefully, no flash or showmanship. He stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the opposing team while Robin played to the crowd, climbing the ropes and blowing kisses in all directions. He should probably have looked ridiculous.

Somehow he didn't.

As the announcer explained the rules of the match, he detached the cape from his mask and folded it, putting it on the stairs. The announcer asked him something--apparently if he had anything to say, from the way he held the mic out, but Bruce shook his head wordlessly and beckoned to the other team: _We're ready for you._

The bell rang and the match started just as Clark finally realized what in the world "Eru Murushierago" was.

 _El Murciélago,_ transliterated into Japanese. _The Bat,_ in Spanish.

Clark found himself shaking his head in bemused amazement as Bruce and Dick proceeded to completely capture the audience's attention and win their hearts, if not the match itself. They played off of each other like shadow and light; Bruce's solemnity cast Dick's brightness into sharp relief, while Dick's exuberance made Bruce seem somehow even more threatening. When their opponent cheated and blew poison dust into Robin's face, leaving him twisting and gasping on the mat, El Murciélago stood as if turned to stone at the side of the ring, unable to help his partner, anguish graven into each tense muscle. It was beautiful ring psychology, and the audience was enthralled.

So was Clark.

 _This_ was what Bruce was meant to be. Not a preening, grinning fool, but an elemental force, as supple and unbreakable as shadow. It was worth it all, Clark realized, worth the separation and the silence, to see Bruce finally come into his own.

The other matches held nothing for him. He turned off the television and dropped off into an uneasy sleep in which he was lost in an endless field of corn, unable to find a way out, while bats winged in the twilight sky overhead, free and untouchable.

* * *

"You're serious?" Clark stared at Jimmy, unable to keep from grinning like a fool. "Me? Someone really asked for me? I mean, for Country Clark Kent?"

"Well…" Jimmy scuffed one foot against the floor. "His first choice was actually Captain Marvel, but…" He shrugged. "You know Batson, said he didn't have time."

Jean-Paul Valley pushed long blond hair out of his face and rolled his eyes. "Billy Batson at a Make-A-Wish Foundation event? That'd be a PR disaster."

"But he specifically asked for you if Captain Marvel was busy, Mr. Kent!" said Jimmy. "He said you were both his favorites."

"Wow." Clark took a deep breath. "Just...wow!" he shook his head in amazement, then caught a glimpse of a small smile on Jean-Paul face. "I'm sure this kind of stuff is really old hat to you," Clark said, "I mean, growing up in a wrestling family and all."

Jean-Paul's smile went somewhat lopsided, as if he'd bitten into something bitter. "Yeah, right."

"Oh," said Clark, taken aback. Valley was an amiable guy; a bit of a stiff worker in the ring but everyone got along with him backstage. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's not your fault," said Jean-Paul. "It's just...I'd rather not talk about it," he said, getting up. "I'm going to hit the gym."

"Way to go, Clark," said Oliver Queen, leaning over the back of a chair. "Didn't anyone tell you not to talk to Valley about his father?"

"Um, I guess not," said Clark. "I knew he grew up in a wrestling family, but--"

"Wrestling cult, more like it. His father was a tyrant," Queen said. "They tell horror stories about how he treated his boys. Raised them to be 'perfect wrestlers.' Beat it into them. Treated it like some kind of religious order."

"You're kidding," said Clark.

"Wish I was. Jean-Paul was the only one who managed to get out of it. He was off in engineering school when his dad got sick, begged him to come back and pick up that Azrael gimmick, save the family business. So he dropped everything and ran back home, sacrificed it all to try and save the promotion. And then his father up and croaked anyway and the promotion went bankrupt. They say he made Jean-Paul swear to stay in wrestling as he was dying. So yeah, he's got some major daddy issues."

"Poor guy," said Clark. "Wrestling should be fun."

Oliver gave him one of his rare genuine smiles. "It is for some of us. For others it's just business. For some it's a burden, and for some an obsession." He cuffed Clark lightly on the shoulder. "You're just a good guy."

Clark was going to retort with something dismissive, but then he saw Selina come through the door. "Selina!" he called across the common room. "Selina, you're not going to believe it! A kid wants to see _me_ for his Make-A-Wish wish! _Me!_ " People all around the room were turning to look at him: Scott and Barda breaking off a conversation with a booker, Luthor glancing up with a raised eyebrow from his phone, Diana and Orion pausing in the middle of a heated argument. "Isn't that the most amazing, humbling thing ever?"

Selina was smiling at him as she strolled over, lazy and affectionate. "I don't know, sweetheart. A Tiffany necklace is pretty impressive."

"Oh, stop it," he said. "This is exactly why I wanted to become a wrestler. _Exactly._ So I could maybe give some brave, tough kid a little bit of hope, a tiny bit of inspiration. I mean, I know it's not like being a surgeon or a firefighter or a teacher, those are people who _really_ help, but if the thing I'm good at can brighten a kid's day--" He broke off and scratched at the back of his head, suddenly realizing everyone was looking at him: some fondly, some condescendingly. "--It just makes me happy, that's all."

"The kid couldn't have chosen better," said Selina. "But I'd still take the Tiffany."

* * *

"--He's a good child," said the nun as she led Clark down the winding corridors. "His parents passed on when he was just a toddler, and he's been with us ever since. He had some severe behavioral problems for a while, but we found that wrestling was a way to get through to him, to give him a way to talk about his fears about his treatment and his hopes for the future." She smiled at Clark. "He speaks often of how you always keep fighting, and how he wants to be like that."

She swung the door open and said "Colin? There's someone here to see you."

Colin Wilkes was a skinny boy with a mop of red hair and eyes that seemed too big for his bony face, but they lit up when he saw Country Clark standing in the door in his overalls. "You came!" he said. "You really came!"

"I said I would," said Clark, smiling. "I didn't want to miss a chance to meet you, Colin."

He gave Colin one of his last remaining Man of Steel t-shirts, and Colin peppered him with questions about whether or not Killer Croc was scary ("He's nicer than he seems"), if Billionaire Brucie really had his own yacht ("I've never seen it, but he says he does"), and if he was ever going to team up with Captain Marvel ("Uh...maybe someday.") After a while, Colin looked down, fiddling with the t-shirt, and asked in a low voice, "When you were fighting Darkseid, and he used the Anti-Life Equation on you, how did you beat him?"

Clark swallowed hard. "Well, I tried to think good thoughts, thoughts about people I loved and things I wanted to do, and it gave me strength." He paused and smiled. "Also, I used a stepover toehold facelock."

Colin thought about that for a while. "Can you teach me how to do that facelock?"

Clark nodded. "I sure can."

It took the rest of the visit to make sure Colin had the move right, but eventually he was able to deliver a stepover toehold facelock that made Country Clark beg for mercy. When the nun appeared in the doorway, he was struggling to break out of Colin's grip; she frowned in mock-severity at them and said, "Colin, you should behave yourself."

"He's a tough kid, Sister," said Clark, extricating himself. "Thanks for bailing me out." He turned to Colin and stuck out his hand. "I hate to go."

Colin beamed at him. "Thanks for teaching me. Maybe when I feel better I'll be able to come to one of your matches!"

"You've got my address--let me know you'll be there and I'll take you backstage and let you meet everyone."

"Oh _boy_ ," said Colin. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart." And Clark did so.

* * *

Pittsburgh. Cleveland. Akron. Columbus. A new photo from Dick of Bruce asleep in a bus, his mouth slightly open. _Tell him the gimmick looked great_ , Clark sent back.

In Metropolis again when the phone rang and Mercy Graves' cool voice echoed on the line: "Mr. Luthor would like to see you in his office this afternoon at DCW headquarters, Mr. Kent."

Clark frowned at the phone and went to search Bruce's closet for a tie.

Soon, dressed in his only suit and a navy-blue silk tie pilfered from Bruce's surprisingly large collection, he was pushing the revolving door that led into Luthor Towers. He'd never actually been in DCW headquarters--it was a far sight from the crummy cinderblock auditorium rooms Luthor used as _ad hoc_ offices when on the road. The carpets on the top floor were so thick his feet made no sound, and brass and mahogany gleamed everywhere.

Mercy gave him an incurious look as he entered the office and pointed with her chin to a chair as she kept typing. He sat in the overly-soft chair, trying not to fidget as Luthor made him wait exactly fifteen minutes.

The door swung open and Luthor smiled at him. "Come in, Clark. Let's talk."

Clark tried not to hear the quiet _click_ as the door swing shut behind them as particularly ominous.

"Let's cut straight to it, shall we?" Luthor said. "I know we haven't always gotten along, but you're a great worker, Clark, you really are. And I don't think we've been utilizing you enough. I think it's time to give you a fresh start with a new gimmick."

Clark sat up straighter, unsure whether to trust his ears. "Really?" 

"Yes, I think you've got a lot of potential this gimmick isn't letting you live up to. We'll shelve Country Clark, give you a little time off to create some space, and then debut you as an entirely new character. More screen time. More storyline possibilities."

No more banjos. No more corn puns. He'd shred the overalls and burn the straw hat and be done with it at last. "I won't let you down, sir," said Clark. "I've got so many ideas--I've been thinking about this so long. I was thinking maybe a red and blue theme, with a cape, like--"

"--That's not quite the direction we've got planned for you," Luthor said. "It's cute, but no." He was still smiling, but Clark felt anxiety suddenly prickle his skin.

"No," said Lex Luthor, "I think it's time for you to have a heel turn."


	25. Heel Turn

_ Managers are assigned to new wrestlers or to ones that need help getting over with the crowd. They walk their charges to ringside, make threats on their behalf, and stand by the ring in case someone needs to be hit with a metal chair or a tennis racket in the heat of the moment --Shaun Assael, "Sex, Lies, and Headlocks" _

"Oh Clark!" Diana stared at him in shock, leaning over the back of the bus seat. Then she beamed. "What wonderful news! I'm so pleased for you!"

She turned and addressed the rest of the wrestlers, sprawled in their seats and largely half-asleep. "Everybody! Luthor has decided to finally give Clark a heel turn!"

A smattering of applause and whistles rose from around him. "You totally deserve it, Kent," said Big Barda, nodding.

"About time," added Oliver Queen, looking up from his crossword puzzle and raising his hand as if to high-five Clark. When Clark didn't slap his hand, he looked puzzled. "What's wrong?"

"But...I don't want to be a heel," said Clark.

Hal Jordan snorted. "You're kidding, right? How long have you been in the business, and you still don't understand how it works?" He shook his head at Clark's expression. "No one's ever made it to the top of the card without a good solid heel turn at some point. Oh, maybe some old-school wrestlers like Alan Scott could do it, but not in the modern business. Heels are where it's at. I mean, look at me." He spread his hands and smiled. "I didn't get any _real_ traction until I took that turn as Parallax, the Living Embodiment of Fear. Then, _wham_ , superstar!" Queen grumbled something under his breath and Jordan socked him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm just saying making you a heel is proof that Luthor thinks you're up to really carrying a full storyline. It's a real vote of confidence."

"But--"

"--Look, Kent." Jordan sounded annoyed now. "Being a heel is the only real way to break into the top and become a headliner at the huge pay-per-views. Do you want a chance at being the best of the best? Or do you _want_ to be stuck in the mid-card forever, jobbing to the big guys like Billy here?"

Billy Batson muttered something extremely obscene under his breath without looking up from his GameBoy. "Shut up, Jordan. If Luthor doesn't see I'd be a fantastic heel, that's his loss."

"Looks more like yours, Billy-boy," shot back Queen, and the GameBoy clattered to the floor of the bus as Batson jumped to his feet, his fists clenched.

"They're right, you know," said Jean-Paul quietly to Clark once the bristling wrestlers had been calmed down. "It's a necessary step in moving to the top. Heels gather energy, they're narrative dynamos. When you turn face once more, all that energy carries over into the new face persona, but now with positive valence." Jean-Paul had an unnerving tendency to talk about wrestling as if it were either an engineering equation or a religion.

"I guess. But still…"

Jean-Paul nodded. "Not all of us are able to find that ruthless persona within us. It causes some psychic harm. Others find it all too easy," he finished in an undertone, and turned to look out the window, ending the conversation.

All right, then. Clark looked around the bus at the faces both congratulatory and envious. He suspected that Luthor knew how he hated the idea, and this was the man's slow-simmering revenge against him for his involvement in the Grayson case. But he was clearly alone in his visceral revulsion at the idea of being a heel, of having audiences boo him instead of cheer him, children cringe from him rather than smile at him. He was just being silly. Probably even Bruce would tell him so.

He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to catch a little sleep before he arrived at the next venue and had to meet with the bookers to discuss his new persona.

* * *

"You're kidding," he said.

"No, we think it will totally work," one of the three bookers said, and they all nodded earnestly.

"You want me to be a spaceman. An alien."

"It worked for the Martian Manhunter," said Elliot, the oldest booker. "But we don't think you'll need all the green face paint."

"I've drawn up some ideas for your new costume," said John. He pulled out a piece of paper and spread it out on the table. "Very modern, very dramatic. I think you'll like it."

"You're kidding," Clark said again, staring down at the sketches. Head-to-toe black, with--were those _white ruffles_ running down the sleeves? Another sketch had a pale blue surplice worn loosely over the tight black bodysuit.

"You want me to claim to be born on another planet--"

"--last son of a doomed planet, yes," put in Mark, the youngest booker.

"--and shot here in a rocket as a baby?"

"You weren't actually _born_ until you arrived on Earth," said John. "Your genetic material arrived in a birthing matrix and--"

"--Birthing matrices are a dumb idea," cut in Mark. "He was born on a doomed Paradise--"

"--No, it was a sterile, cold place of total intellect--"

"--a utopia of progress and enlightenment!"

Mark and John glared at each other and seemed likely to come to blows until Elliot addressed Clark directly.

"Obviously we don't have all the details hammered out yet. I know we'd be happy to hear your input."

Clark cleared his throat and tried to banish the images of his new costume from his mind. "Well, I suppose I probably have come as a conqueror, right? I could do a spiel, like _Tremble before me, Earthlings, for none can stand against my terrible might, and--"_

Elliot grimaced. "Can you give us a growl?"

"A...growl? Like: _grrrrrhhgh_?"

A smile of relief from Elliot. "Yes, that'll be perfect. See, Luthor says your new persona is going to be a monster heel, one that doesn't, you know...talk."

"We've got a manager picked out for you and everything," said John. "You just have to look menacing and snarl a lot."

It was the final indignity, and Clark felt his indignation drain out of him, leaving nothing but bleak resignation. This was going to be it, then--he was going to wear skintight black spandex with white ruffles and be a laughingstock. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

"So do you have an opinion about your home planet?" Elliot asked him. "We still need a name for it." 

"No we don't," snapped John. "It's Argon, he's the Argonian."

Mark rolled his eyes. "It's Xenon, idiot. The Xenonite." 

Elliot sighed as the two continued to bicker. "What do you think, Clark?" He looked concerned, and Clark tried to muster up a smile for him, but it felt stiff and unnatural.

"It's fine," he said. "Whatever you want to do with it is okay."

* * *

The details were decided around him over the next few weeks, but Clark didn't pay much attention. Milton Fine--AKA "Brainiac," the guy with the hypnotist gimmick--was going to be his manager. Clark's character would beam his thoughts directly into Fine's psychic brain and communicate that way, without having to actually speak. "Sounds creepy, I like it!" Fine said cheerfully when informed of the gimmick shift. Clark just shrugged.

His final storyline as Country Clark started: the infamous Dumas Brothers were hunting down Azrael and were going to use his friend Clark to get to him. Country Clark was eventually going to be beaten so badly that he would have to quit wrestling, allowing Azrael to swear vengeance for his friend. Going out as a minor plot point in someone else's story: that seemed about right. He went through the motions, but considering both Selina and Harvey had pulled him aside to ask if he was okay, he wasn't sure he was fooling anyone.

And then, when he was checking into the hotel in Topeka, the woman behind the desk smiled brightly. "Mr. Kent? There's a letter here for you."

Up in his room, Clark stared at the envelope of heavy Japanese paper, his name written on it in familiar broad strokes. _He won't text, he won't email, but he'll write me an actual letter on actual paper, of course he will._ After a moment, he broke the seal and took out the carefully-folded paper.

 **Clark,** the letter started with no formalities. **I hear that you're going to be getting a new gimmick as a heel. I'm sure everyone around you is telling you this is good news for your career. They're right, of course.**

Clark sighed and forced himself to keep reading.

**But I also am sure that you hate the idea. You love having people smile at you. You love inspiring people. Being a heel violates every sense of self you have. This is also right, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.**

**So I'm not going to tell you to be happy about being a heel. You will never enjoy it; that's just the kind of person you are. But I'm writing to remind you that heels are valuable. They are the driving force behind stories, the spur that evokes heroism. Without darkness, the light could never shine so brightly. I'm hoping you can remember that, that you can find some value in being, for a time, the start of stories rather than the end, the shadow that calls forth the light. I think that you can be a good heel, because I think you understand and love stories and you are willing to sacrifice yourself to make a good story.**

**Let me say that again: because you are a good and selfless man, I think you will be an excellent heel.**

**Finally, and perhaps most importantly, if you let this break your spirit (as I suspect Luthor wants it to) we might not get to wrestle again. And that would be a damn shame. We still have so many stories to create together. I think we--**

Here the angular handwriting broke off. Beneath it was written in a more hasty hand, **Dick sends his love** , and then Bruce's signature. 

Clark looked at it for a long time, imagining Bruce with his pen hovering above the paper, glaring at it as if he could make that last sentence end satisfactorily by sheer willpower. He folded the paper gently and slipped it back into its envelope, laying the envelope on his luggage. Frowning, he turned on his laptop and did a search for the periodic table, then spent a long time looking at the list of "noble gases" and drumming his fingers on the table.

Then he shut his laptop with a satisfyingly emphatic _click_ , stood up, and headed to the arena where preparations were in place for the show that night.

Elliot, Mark and John looked up in surprise as he walked into the bookers' room. Clark smiled at them.

"The planet's name is Krypton," he announced. "And I'm the Kryptonian."


	26. Making People Hate You

_ It’s much easier to make people hate you than it is to make them like you. --Chris Jericho _

Clark picked up Country Clark's battered straw hat, turning it around in his hands. There was a rip in the crown and the brim was starting to fray. How many times had he wished he could toss it in the incinerator?

He ran his fingers along the brim, remembering when Dick had stolen it from him backstage and jammed it onto Bruce's head, taking a picture when Bruce had looked up in bemused annoyance. Remembered Billionaire Brucie knocking it to the ground and laughing as Country Clark had been forced to kneel to pick it up again. Remembered Colin Wilkes's laughing face, peeking out from beneath it.

Then he sighed and put it on his head and walked out to the ring for Country Clark's last match.

* * *

The Dumas Brothers were mid-carders, anonymous jobbers in identical red outfits. They pulled a run-in when Country Clark was wrestling Two-Face, Two-Face stepping back to allow the two to attack Country Clark when he was down. Clark sold the assault, writhing and twisting as their feet and fists connected with his body. He felt a slightly-misplaced kick glance across his lower lip and tasted blood; curling up, he surreptitiously rubbed his fingers across his lip and dabbled blood across his face. When Azrael's entrance music hit and the Angel of Vengeance charged down the ramp to help his friend, the roar of bloodthirsty relief from the crowd gave him a glow of professional pride. He lay, "broken and beaten," as Azrael stood astride his body, holding his attackers at bay with the force of his fury.

The Dumas Brothers routed, Azrael in hot pursuit (when asked about leaving his friend alone in the ring later, Azrael would intone that "Azrael is a force of pure and untainted retribution: beyond friendship, beyond affection!"). Country Clark attempted to struggle to his feet and a leering Two-Face stepped in to complete the beating as the crowd shrieked for blood. Clark pulled himself up for one last rally, but it was of no use: his spirit was unbroken, but his body was simply too battered. He staggered forward into Two-Face's Janus Suplex and was slammed into the mat as the crowd moaned in despair.

Clark lay on the mat, listening to the boos as Two-Face strutted about the ring, gloating. He could hear shouting; the medical staff were being summoned to the ring to care for the injured Country Clark. He felt them lift his limp body onto the stretcher, and let one of his hands dangle pitifully off it. 

Clark could hear fans calling his name as he was carried out of the arena. He managed to lift one hand in a feeble wave, and then Two-Face caught up with the stretcher at the top of the ramp, tipping it over. Clark let himself fall helplessly to the ground, his head lolling as Two-Face got in a few last good kicks, laughing maniacally. Clark felt him lean close as the guards started to pull him away.

"Good finish," Harvey murmured. "I'll miss this gimmick, man."

_Me too._

* * *

Clark got some time off to create a space between Country Clark's disappearance and the Kryptonian's debut: he went back to Kansas and spent a while baling hay and feeding cows. The baler was brand new, there was fresh paint on the farmhouse, and the mortgage was paid off at last. He whistled a lot as he went about his chores, and thought about Krypton and the Kryptonian. Why was he here? Why didn't he speak? Lots of possibilities.

He texted Bruce pictures of the farm and his parents. There was no reply. Dick texted him a few days later: _Ur parents r cute. Want to visit ur farm someday & milk cows._

Clark smiled a little. He texted Bruce later: _Thank you for the letter. It helped._

He thought about Kryptonian culture and language. He started sketching family crests. None of them seemed right for a monster like the Kryptonian, so he put them away for now.

Lots of planning to do.

* * *

"Ooh." Selina squeezed his biceps appreciatively. "I see you spent a lot of time at the gym while you were gone."

"Just lifting bales of hay," Clark said.

She smirked. "That gimmick's finished," she said, then laughed at his expression. "I'm just teasing you, silly farmboy."

"Hey, Clark!" Scott Free called to him. "Good to see you back! Come here and check this out, they've got footage of Bruce up on Youtube."

He flipped his laptop around so Clark could see it, then pressed "play": Clark felt himself smiling to see El Murciélago delivering a stylish beatdown to an opponent. There was a polish to his motions that hadn't been there before, a confident grace and fluidity. He pivoted and Clark could see the joyous flex in the line of his arms, the power in his shoulders as he dodged.

Then Clark blinked as El Murciélago's opponent misstepped and one of Bruce's moves fell flat, breaking the glamor of the moment. They both recovered quickly, but Clark could read irritation in the set of Bruce's shoulders. _He needs a better partner than that,_ Clark thought, annoyed on his behalf. He found himself wondering what it would be like to be in the ring with him, matching him movement for movement, giving way when Bruce pressed forward, surging ahead when Bruce fell back, clashing in the center like two waves of energy, perfectly matched and balanced and--

"Oh good grief, not _her_." Selina's snarl at his ear broke his rapt concentration as the camera focused on a woman at ringside. She was dressed in a stylized version of a tuxedo top and fishnets, with a black top hat perched upon dark curly hair. Back in the ring, El Murciélago's opponent had stealthily pulled out a handful of some blue, sparkling powder and was preparing to blow it into El Murciélago's face.

And then the woman in the tux cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled "Ezeerf!"

The heel stopped, motionless, and a wave of delight rippled through the crowd as El Murciélago stared, then realized what had almost happened. He looked at the woman, who grinned and jumped into the ring to throw her arms around him. As the heel's confederate charged the ring, El Murciélago and the magician maneuvered him so he was in front of the heel, and then the woman yelled "Ezeerfnu!"

The heel blew blue powder all over his own ally, who collapsed to the mat, choking. El Murciélago grabbed him, slammed him into the mat, and the bell rang in triumph.

"God, I can't believe she's still doing that _stupid_ backwards-talking-magic gimmick," said Selina, rolling her eyes as El Murciélago and the woman walked back up the ramp holding hands. 

"You know her?"

"Zatanna? Oh yeah, we go way back, we debuted together. I was in the middle of my first really good babyface turn, I'd worked out the psychology, really made it totally believable, it took _months_ of work. And then _she_ decided it would be fun to reveal that I'd only turned face because she'd 'worked her magic'--" Selina's air quotes scratched the air, "on me. All my hard character work and it turned out I was only a face because she'd said 'Aniles, eb recin.' Stole all my heat and got the push I should have had." Selina pulled a face at the paused screen where Zatanna was waving at the crowd, hand in hand with Bruce. "Well, who's in the big leagues now, huh? _Etib em,_ baby." 

Clark couldn't help laughing at her expression, and she looked at him with a mischievous twinkle. Then she looked back at the screen, then back at him. "I'm sure it's just kayfabe, the two of them," she said.

"What?" said Clark. "Oh, right."

He wasn't sure what it said about him that he was more jealous of the person who got to be with Bruce in the ring than the person who got to hug him in public, and he certainly wasn't about to explain that to Selina's concerned eyes.

He had a match to get ready for, anyway.

* * *

The outfit was every bit as horrific as he had imagined: skintight black spandex that encased his entire body, with a ridge of stiff white whorls of cloth that ran down his arms. Well, there was no helping it. He combed his hair back severely: no more endearing tousled look. As a final touch, his own idea and one he was rather proud of: bright red contact lens to cover up his distinctive "babyface blues" (as Oliver liked to call them).

Clark looked into the mirror. The Kryptonian sneered back at him.

"You look…" Milton Fine's eyebrows rose appreciatively as Clark walked into the common room. "You look pretty badass, actually."

Diana was nodding, her arms crossed. "I told you you'd be good at this."

"I can't quite believe they won't realize the Kryptonian isn't Country Clark."

She smiled at him. "It's a greater change than you realize, Clark. And remember, they _want_ to believe."

Standing in the gorilla position moments later, Clark shook his hands out, feeling nervous in a way he hadn't for some time. 

_Remember, the audience needs a villain. Their hate and fear is just love disguised._

The words were so clear and the nuance so distinct that he nearly turned around to see if Bruce was there at his shoulder.

And then it was their cue: eerie jangling music full of strange dissonances struck up, and he and Milton Fine strode into the arena.

"What do you mean, no pyrotechnics?" Luthor had looked annoyed when Clark had shaken his head at the idea. "I was thinking a big explosion, thunderous kaboom--"

"No," Clark had said. "I just want all the lights to go out. Then my music hits."

"Sounds undramatic," Luthor had complained.

"Trust me," Clark said.

The arena went oddly silent as the Kryptonian and Milton Fine--in his Brainiac hypnotist outfit--stood at the top of the ramp, picked out by pinpoint spotlights and nothing else, to interrupt the match between Mister Miracle and Virmin Vunderbarr.

"People of Earth!" Brainiac intoned, throwing his hands out. "I come to you today as a herald of the new Golden Age! From the depths of space, the message came to me, and I knew it to be true. He has arrived, the One who will show us a new way: free of sadness, free of suffering, free of joy and all such contemptible emotions!" 

Security guards closed in on them, but the Kryptonian, without deigning to glance at them, shoved them away. Then the Kryptonian began to make his slow way, step by step, down the ramp toward the ring: inexorable and unstoppable. Behind him, Clark could hear Lex Luthor arguing with Brainiac, yelling at him to "call it back, make it stop!" He let the slightest smile lift the corner of his mouth: a smile of utter contempt.

And then he was in the ring. 

Mister Miracle tried to stop him first, jumping forward, but the Kryptonian simply tossed him over the ropes so he landed on a panicking Oberon, both of them collapsing to the ground. Vermin Vunderbarr cringed and smiled-- _the enemy of my enemy is my friend, yes?_ \--but there was not a flicker of compassion on the Kryptonian's face as he grabbed Vunderbarr by the throat and lifted him into the air before crushing him in turn to the mat.

"Witness the power of the Kryptonian Doom Clutch! All will fall before the Kryptonian!" ranted Brainiac's booming voice. "The Last Son of Krypton will cleanse the world of weakness!"

From backstage, a handful of babyfaces came running out to confront the intruder: Green Arrow, Flash, Black Lightning, Aztek, and Hawkman all jumped into the ring and surrounded him. Clark kept his face motionless as he considered them, merely raising one sardonic eyebrow. When Hawkman came at him (it would be violating face ethics to all jump him at once, of course), the Kryptonian took the blow without any reaction at all, then grabbed him and executed a double knee armbreaker that left Hawkman writhing in pain on the mat. 

One by one he took them out, and only Black Lightning was able to faze him--and then only physically, when his Lightning Strike attack made the Kryptonian stagger backwards a few steps. Then the Kryptonian had merely smiled, raised that eyebrow again, and stepped forward to finish off the stunned babyface.

He stood in the middle of the arena, and for a moment there was only silence. He crossed his arms and stared out at them. Then a low, hissing growl of disapproval started to scurry around the arena. It wasn't deafening, but it was there. The Kryptonian nodded once in satisfaction, then looked at Brainiac, narrowing his eyes.

"The--The Kryptonian wishes me to inform you that he savors your distress and consternation!" The boos picked up in volume at the insult. "At last you understand who your true master is!" He threw his hands in the air as outrage washed around him. "Truly, you are wise to be so terrified!" 

The crowd was having none of this, and as the Kryptonian turned to leave the ring--carefully stepping directly on Aztek and Flash as he left--they ignited into fury, screaming at him. 

The Kryptonian ignored them entirely, striding up the ramp. He caught glimpses out of the corner of his eye of faces twisted into an ecstasy of anger. He and Fine had done it, they'd set the Kryptonian up as a viable heel who would be a challenge for the babyfaces to take down, a force to be reckoned with. He felt a thrill of proprietary pride--the Kryptonian was going to get over, he could tell.

But he still missed seeing people smile as he left the arena.

* * *

That night he was lying in a saggy bed in a seedy hotel, going over his match in his mind. Fine was a skilled ad-libber, he'd adjusted to the crowd well. They were going to make a good team. Luthor had rolled his eyes when Clark said he wanted to play the Kryptonian as an ice-cold genius: "An intellectual monster, _that_ should be interesting." But he'd let Clark run with it, let Clark jettison the grunting and the snarling, and Fine knew how to sell awe and groveling well. They were putting him in a feud with El Dragón next and after that they were talking about Hawkman--maybe they'd finally figure out if Hawkman should go with the alien or the reincarnated Egyptian god gimmick, it seemed the bookers switched him every few weeks. 

The future seemed pretty certain for the Kryptonian.

His phone chirped, and a text from Dick popped up: _Good match._

Clark shook his head: _How did you see it so fast?_

 _Don't ask, and I don't have 2 admit I know how 2 use BitTorrent._ A pause. _Bruce says to say u stole tht eyebrow from him._

Clark felt both of his eyebrows go up. _I don't recall seeing either Billionaire Brucie or El Murciélago do an eyebrow like that,_ he sent back.

_He sez don't b a dope, he means from him. And he says he's gonna come back and sue u over it._

Clark snorted in the silence of his hotel room. _Tell him to feel free to come back and try._

A longer pause. _Rest assured, I will be back soon,_ glowed the screen. _And will hold you to that._

 _You could use your own phone, you know,_ sent Clark.

 _I think he just lieks stealin mine,_ said Dick's distinctive diction once more. _Jackass._

Still chuckling, Clark flopped down on the bed. _Good night from the US,_ he sent.

_Good morning from Japan, and sleep well._

He fell asleep with the phone still cradled to his chest, his hands wrapped around it.


	27. All it Takes is One Bad Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark works on perfecting the Kryptonian gimmick, El Murciélago gets over big in Japan, and Jack Napier has a very bad match.

_ You have to establish a heel character the second you walk through the curtain. You have to want people to hate you. They should be throwing shit at you. Then when you step in the ring and the good guy across from you hits you and knocks you on your ass, the roof blows off. And that good guy, that babyface, is truly a good guy. And they buy his merchandise. The audience is living vicariously through him. --Eric Bischoff _

"I will **defeat** you, Kryptonian!" announced El Dragón, pointing dramatically. "I will beat you in a fight!"

The Kryptonian narrowed his eyes, moving forward. From his spotlit position on the ramp, Brainiac threw up his hands and spoke: "The Kryptonian informs me that you are beneath his notice! He will crush you without a second glance!"

"You are a **cruel** man," said El Dragón. "You are a bad person who likes to hurt other people. I **hope** I will stop you. I wish and believe that I will stop you."

"The Kryptonian is your superior!" yelled Brainiac. "The Kryptonian is a person who is better than--arrrgh, now you've got me doing it too."

Laughter rippled around the arena as the bell rang and El Dragón dodged a vicious punch from the Kryptonian, ducking underneath him. He lost eventually, but he put up a good fight, and by the end of it the crowd was roaring its approval of the luchador in gold and blue.

"My own shirt!" Backstage, Miguel waved his brand new t-shirt at Clark. "And I've got an offer to help make an educational kid's book! I never thought my gimmick would take off." He clapped Clark on the back. "And I've got the Kryptonian to thank."

Clark made a dismissive noise. "With your moves? You'd have made it anyway. But if I made it happen a little faster, I'm happy." He grinned at Miguel. "I'm feeling a positive emotion."

Miguel rolled his eyes. "Don't steal my gimmick, man."

* * *

El Dragón was over big--the lovable didactic loser who never gave up against the alien menace--and the Kryptonian was moved into a feud with Hawkman. Their in-ring chemistry was good, although he and Carter Hall would certainly never be friends outside the ring, and soon the two of them were wrestling in main-event matches. The Kryptonian's heat grew, until at the moment when all the lights went out before his appearance arenas would erupt in boos that nearly drowned out his entrance music.

All it took to get a crowd behind a babyface was to put him up against the Kryptonian--not many were booked to win against him, but even putting in a good fight was enough to make the audience love him. Milton Fine as Brainiac continued to goad the crowd with pronouncements "beamed into his mind" from the Kryptonian, and Clark learned that having speaking lines wasn't the only way to get your character across. He mastered the disdainful eyebrow, the lofty sneer, the remote glare. He stalked, he prowled, he loomed.

It wasn't fun, but it was satisfying, and he was helping a lot of wrestlers get over with the fans.

Meanwhile, El Murciélago and Robin were becoming a sensation in Japan, where their innovative moves and agility made technical purists swoon. One day, a grinning Selina showed him a pro wrestling column: "The Kryptonian Versus El Murciélago: Who Would Win?" 

"The comments are running four to one in favor of El Murciélago," she informed him when he gave her an incredulous look.

"They _are_ aware that this is all scripted, right? That who wins has nothing to do with strength or skill and everything to do with what the booker needs for the storyline?"

"They appear to enjoy arguing about it anyway," Selina smirked.

"Everyone here seems to know that El Murciélago is really Billionaire Brucie," he said, scrolling. 

"Yep, and they know he'll be back in the DCW eventually. There's a _lot_ of enthusiasm for an angle between the two of you."

"Interesting," said Clark, skimming past some photos of El Murciélago posing with Zatanna on his arm.

"I hope he'll be back soon," Selina said wistfully. "I miss teasing him--the cute little way he stares expressionlessly at you when you make a joke--you remember that one?"

"Oh yes," said Clark, remembering that look. Remembering the rare times he _did_ laugh. "I remember it well."

* * *

"Sorry about that," said Jean-Paul Valley as they undressed in the locker room after their first match together.

Clark winced as he peeled his bodysuit back, looking down at the purpling skin. "You sure don't pull your punches, do you?" He'd heard wrestlers complaining about Valley's stiff fighting style, but he'd never encountered it in the flesh--so to speak. 

Jean-Paul pulled off his face mask and flung it into his locker, almost angrily. "I said I was sorry," he snapped. Then he grimaced at Clark, a chagrined rictus. "My father--he trained all of us to fight like that. To hurt others in the ring." His voice had dropped, and he sounded very young. "I've spent years trying to be better, but sometimes when I put on this damned costume, it's as if I can hear his voice in my ear, telling me that I'm worthless, that I must prove myself, be more than a man--"

"--Hey. It's all right," said Clark. Jean-Paul's hands were shaking. "You do great, you're fantastic. It's just a bruise, see?" He poked at his darkening flesh. "It's not a mortal wound or anything."

Jean-Paul nodded stiffly. "Thank you," he said, and disappeared into the shower, leaving Clark to remember how grateful he was that he didn't grow up in a wrestling family.

* * *

"Come _on_ , Lex, you're _killing_ me," whined Jack Napier, running his hands through his unruly curls. "Let me crack one joke--just one!"

"Red Hood is a non-speaking monster," Luthor said. "He's been in the promotion for decades, and that only works if he _doesn't speak._ " He pointed at Clark. "Kent here hasn't said a word on the mic since he became a heel, and he's one of our biggest draws."

Clark shrugged as Napier glared at him.

"He's not _funny,_ " said Napier. "He's just a big slab of beef in a black leotard! I'm a _comedian_ , telling jokes is who I _am._ I can't be funny stuck under a helmet and not talking!"

Luthor gave him one of his best icy looks. "Then maybe you're not as much of a comedian as you think you are." He picked up the red helmet and tossed it to Napier. "You've got a promo with Azrael. Get ready."

Napier waited until the door closed behind Luthor. Then he hurled the helmet against the bank of lockers, making everyone jump.

"I don't like this promo either," Jean-Paul said. 

"Are you kidding?" Oliver Queen was all smiles. "Any promo that ends with the heel getting chocolate pudding dumped all over them is a good promo in my book. I should think you'd be thrilled, Napier--that's comedy for you."

"That's not comedy, that's just vaudeville," complained Napier. "Crass slapstick, juvenile humor! There's nothing funny about that at all. Also, I hate chocolate pudding."

"Red Hood has terrorized various wrestlers for months now. The storyline calls for the defeat and humiliation of the heel," Azrael said. "I would have preferred a different approach, but the decision is not ours, Napier." He pulled on his mask. "Let us go out and face the crowds."

Napier picked up the helmet. He flashed the locker room a smile, but it was closer to a rictus grin, miserable and stiff. "I don't know how much longer I can take this," he said.

But he put on the helmet and headed out.

* * *

The promo between Red Hood and Azrael became legendary, known as one of the greatest breakings of kayfabe ever (at least until the Gotham Screwjob). It started smoothly enough, with Azrael facing down Red Hood and making pronouncements about how the Wicked Would be Punished, how Vengeance Would Fall From the Heavens. Meanwhile, a giggling Catwoman and Poison Ivy were shown setting up the prank--and when Azrael reached the height of his oratory, about ten gallons of sticky, viscous brown material plopped down on Red Hood.

It was pudding, but it resembled other gloppy brown fluids enough to send the audience into spasms of delight as it slopped over Red Hood and ran down his helmet. Wild ripples of laughter ran through the arena. When Red Hood tried to strike a dramatic pose, pointing at Azrael, and a belated _blorp_ of pudding landed squarely on his head, the laughter rose to drown out everything. 

Clark could see Red Hood's hands shaking. "Hey," he said, worried. "I think Napier's having some trouble out there."

"But everyone's finally laughing," said Green Lantern.

"Not the way he wants," Clark said, grimacing.

Red Hood took a step forward--and his feet slipped out from under him, sending him crashing to the mat. For a long while the announcers couldn't even be heard over the shrieks of hilarity.

And then Red Hood reached up and wrenched the helmet from his head. 

" _That's_ what's funny?" he screamed, his voice barely intelligible over the crowd. He threw down the helmet and it bounced off the mat, ricocheting into the audience. "Cretins! Imbiciles! Philistines!" 

"Holy crap," breathed Billy Batson, staring at the screen. "He's destroyed the Red Hood gimmick. Luthor's gonna kill him."

Napier was raving at the crowd, which was dying down into confused murmurs. "I will no longer cater to you stunted mouth-breathers! I am greater than you can possibly imagine in your petty, gray, mundane dreams!" He was very pale and his eyes were blazing, his mouth working with fury. The audience started to fall into an uneasy silence. People in the audience were looking at each other, uncertain. Spittle sprayed from Napier's mouth as his transcendent tirade continued: "You ignore the brilliance of the true _artist_ while laughing at this pathetic, coarse, lowest-denominator--"

A final delayed torrent of brown pudding _splatted_ into his curls and the audience was gone again, exploding into laughter.

Napier's face contorted in incandescent rage. "Ingrates!" he howled. "Wretches! Poltroons!" He bent down and started flinging handfuls of pudding at the audience, which only increased the chaos.

Azrael was still standing, clearly unsure what to do. The referee scrambled close to Azrael and whispered something to him. Azrael nodded, then moved forward and grabbed Napier in an arm wrench, leaning close to mutter in his ear as well.

Napier went limp as Azrael lifted him into a fireman's carry and slammed him to the pudding-stained mat.

"My God," said Oliver Queen as the medical staff hustled Napier off on a stretcher and the announcers hastily discussed what it might mean that Red Hood had snapped so dramatically, "I've never seen anything like that."

The common room buzzed with speculation at what this might mean for Napier: breaking kayfabe to this extent was unheard of. Wrestlers had lost their jobs for less. The Red Hood gimmick might be saved, but it was going to take a huge amount of work. Did this mean that--

The conversations fell silent as Napier stormed into the common room, his hair still sticky with pudding, fury charging his every movement. "That lout might have killed me, slamming me like that with practically no warning!" he raved. 

"I told him to do it," Lex Luthor's cold voice cut him off. Everyone turned to see Luthor standing in the doorway, his arms folded. "I sent the message to the ref, who handed it on to Valley. Your ridiculous, self-indulgent little tirade needed to be stopped."

"Ridic--Self-in--" Napier gasped and choked on his outrage. "Did you _hear_ them?" 

"I did indeed," said Luthor. "And I know that in all your time here at the DCW, you have _never_ been able to evoke that kind of reaction. You're a pathetic excuse for a wrestler, Napier. You're not a comedian--you're a _clown._ "

As Napier gaped at him, Luthor smiled. The wrestlers standing closest to him edged away from him. 

"That's right. A clown. And since the Red Hood gimmick is clearly over, I think we'll make you a clown indeed. That will be your next gimmick, Napier--green hair, greasepaint, a big red smiling mouth. Something to make the kiddies laugh."

He turned and left the common room, leaving Napier standing in sticky, chocolate-covered shock. His hands were shaking again, his mouth working. Everyone stared in nervous silence.

And then a voice came from the back door.

"Actually, I think you're on to something." Bruce Wayne strolled into the room, ignoring everyone swiveling to stare at him in turn as he spoke to Napier. "There was a real core of darkness there, a really authentic, scary thing. Did you see the audience? They were seriously unnerved. You freaked them out, Napier." He was nodding. "I think you've got something great there."

"I--I have?" Napier sounded uncertain. "Maybe I do," he said slowly. "You know--yes, maybe I do!" He nodded a few times, very quickly. "That's a whole different kind of funny, isn't it? Like, the whole thing is a huge joke--on everyone! Yes, yes, I'll have to think about this…" His voice trailed off as he wandered out of the room, muttering to himself and leaving a trail of squishy brown footprints behind him.

People crowded around Bruce, clapping him on the back and asking questions, but he shook them off and and went over to where Clark was sitting, staring at him.

"Hi. I'm back," he said, and held out his hand.


	28. Submission Holds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is finally back, and soon he and Clark are getting sweaty and grappling with each other. After all, that clawhold needs work, and they have to practice that armbar...

_ Understand, for starters, that wrestling sex is to real sex what wrestling violence is to real violence. Just as the most effective punch is the pulled variety, the best fuck is the mind kind. --David Caron _

"I wanted to surprise you," Bruce said. He was sitting next to Clark on one of the locker room benches as the other wrestlers milled around in the post-show chaos, nodding at the people who were coming around to give him high-fives or slaps on the back, but his attention seemed fixed mainly on Clark.

"Well, you succeeded!" Clark couldn't seem to stop smiling. He kept sneaking little looks at Bruce's face. Bruce was smiling too--a small smile, but a genuine one.

"We got the call a couple of weeks ago--the Zucco case is finally going to trial."

"They delayed it long enough," Clark grumbled, and Bruce nodded.

"But Gordon persisted, and the trial starts soon. Dick and I will be called as witnesses, so it was time to come home." He bounced slightly on the bench. "And here I am."

"How's Dick been doing?"

Bruce's small smile flashed into a grin for an instant. "Clark, it's amazing. He's grown so much as a wrestler, it's been a joy to mentor him." He shook his head. "And speaking of mentoring, it looks like you've become quite the locker-room leader."

Startled, Clark laughed out loud, but Bruce's face was serious. "What?"

A rueful half-smile. "You didn't even notice, did you? The other wrestlers look up to you. They trust you to get them over, they _like_ you." He said it as if it were some kind of awe-inspiring aerial move he'd never quite been able to pull off. "I was texting Harvey about his latest storyline a while ago, lobbing some ideas around, and he said he'd run them past you and see if you thought they'd fly."

Clark frowned, remembering. "Well, sure, Harvey told me what he was thinking about and asked my opinion, but--I mean, I was just listening. And--hey, wait, you were texting Harvey regularly? You hardly said boo to me the whole time you were gone!"

"Didn't know you wanted me to say boo to you," Bruce said, and went to sock Clark in the shoulder. Clark caught his fist in his right hand and feinted as if to punch him in the jaw with his left, scowling thunderously. Bruce grabbed his left hand and for a moment they pushed at each other, hands clasped, growling slightly, grinning. Then Bruce's arms went abruptly lax and Clark almost fell forward into him.

"I didn't know what to say," Bruce said. Their hands were still clasped, Clark's arms almost around him. "Nothing seemed good enough to say."

They stared at each other for a moment and Clark swallowed, suddenly aware that they were still in a crowded locker room. "So," he said slowly, "Would you like to--"

"--go out to dinner?" said Bruce at the same moment Clark said "--plan some new moves?"

They looked at each other and burst out laughing at the same time, causing a few wrestlers to stop and stare at them before shrugging and moving on.

Clark grinned sheepishly. "It's just--I've had to completely change my move set since turning heel, and I've got so many ideas for some interesting variations that would take a lot of teamwork--it's not that Miguel or Jean-Paul or any of the others aren't up to it, but I was--" He stopped and felt himself reddening under Bruce's gaze. "I was--kind of saving some of the more difficult ones for when you and I were in a match together again." He cleared his throat. "Do you think we'll be able to convince the bookers to put us in an angle again sometime?"

"Oh," said Bruce, a half-smile on his face. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

There was a pounding on his hotel door; Clark sat up abruptly and Bruce made a sleepy sound of protest, grabbing at his hand before giving up and letting him stand up and head toward the door.

"Morning!" Dick Grayson was in the hallway, looking chipper. He'd put on a few inches and pounds while in Japan; he might never be a heavyweight, but he was finally coming into his own physically. "When Bruce didn't come back to our room last night I had a feeling he might be here." His smile widened as he took in Clark's mussed hair and sleepy eyes. "You guys have a nice night?"

"It wasn't like that," Clark said, trying to sound nonchalant. "We just got dinner and then came back and talked about wrestling until we fell asleep." Dick gave him a narrow look, and he shrugged. "We had a lot to talk about."

He knew he looked embarrassed, and he was--but the fact was he was mostly embarrassed that it was totally true. They'd gone out for burgers and spent the whole meal arguing about backstory for the Kryptonian. When Clark admitted he hadn't given any thought to whether Krypton had two moons or three, Bruce had thrown up his hands in disgust and accused him of lacking commitment to his gimmick, and Clark had started laughing so hard that the other diners had glared at them.

By the time they got back to Clark's hotel room, they'd been embroiled in a discussion of Clark's proposed variation on a diving double-foot stomp he wanted to call the "Rocket Crash." "Throw in a moonsault in the middle and you might have something," Bruce said. "I'd say a double rotation moonsault but I think Dick's the only wrestler I know with the agility to pull that one off. But the _point_ is--" He said, tapping Clark's nose with his finger, "The point is, you really need to be working more on your submission holds. Country Clark was all aerial moves, the Kryptonian gimmick needs more focus on making lesser mortals submit to him."

Clark batted Bruce's hand away, feeling somewhat nettled on being lectured about his own gimmick's psychology, and dropped onto the bed. "I've got that sleeper hold, the Alien Death Grip one."

Bruce tilted his head to the side. "Ehh, the name's good but it's not very dramatic. Have you thought about a clawhold? Get the right partner who'll sell it and you'll give the audience nightmares. I saw someone do a version once that--hold on, I'll show you."

And they had practiced that clawhold and argued about possible names for it until they were both yawning, goofy with exhaustion. At some point Clark had been showing him a version of the Steel Bar armbar, using the bed as an impromptu mat, and--well, apparently they had fallen asleep mid-grapple. 

Clark thought about explaining all of this to Dick, who was currently looking at Bruce still asleep on his bed, but decided Dick would probably never believe him. "Wake up," he said instead, and nudged Bruce's hand as it dangled off the bed. "Dick's here."

"Tell Clark," mumbled Bruce, blinking blearily at Dick. "Tell him that armbar would be better from a front mount than from the back."

Dick shook his head. "He talked to you about wrestling techniques until you fell asleep. Typical Bruce."

Okay, maybe Dick would believe him after all. "It wasn't just him."

"Yeah, I could hardly get a word in edgewise," Bruce said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Then he seemed to remember something and scrambled to his feet. "Let's show him that clawhold. Look at this, Dick." 

He grabbed Clark's hand and put it on his face; Clark splayed his fingers so his palm covered Bruce's face, his fingertips forming a circle of tension points. "So he'll do this, and then his opponent grabs his wrist, like he's trying to break free--" Bruce seized Clark's wrist as if he were frantically struggling against the hold, and Clark felt his grip tighten in preparation. Clark lifted his arm slightly and Bruce hoisted himself by his grip on Clark's wrist, his face contorting as if Clark were yanking him up by the fingers clamped on his face. "If it goes well," he said calmly, his face still apparently locked in a claw hold, swinging from Clark's wrist, "he can toss them across the ring from there."

Dick whistled appreciatively. "That'll be great if it's sold well."

"If the other guy's too heavy he can do a submission hold version where he crushes the will from them," said Bruce. " _That_ is why," he said, jabbing Clark in the ribs with his free hand and dropping onto the bed, "It should be called the Will Crusher."

Clark shook his head. "Psionic Claw."

They looked at Dick, who crossed his arms and considered. "Clark is right," he said at last.

Bruce groaned, falling backwards in despair. "Betrayed!" he said. "Betrayed by my own apprentice." He sat back up. "Let's get some breakfast. Then we can go to the arena and see if we can get some practice time in on the ring there before the show tonight. I still have to prove to you that you're doing the armbar wrong."

Clark grabbed his coat. "I want to see how much air time we can get with the Psionic Claw-- _the Psionic Claw_ ," he repeated firmly as Bruce opened his mouth to correct him. "If I can shoot you onto the ropes with it, just think what I could do with a smaller wrestler like Miguel, it would look awesome."

Dick looked from Bruce to Clark incredulously, then shrugged. "I should be used to you guys being monomaniacs by now," he said, and followed them out the door.

* * *

"Hail, Bruce," called Diana Prince from the seats as Bruce and Clark climbed into the ring. "It is a pleasure to see you once again." She was dressed in a white jumpsuit, her hair in a high ponytail, white go-go boots propped on the seat in front of her, and reading a well-worn copy of Judith Butler's _Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity._

"You look great, Princess," said Bruce. "Very 70s, very retro."

"You're looking good yourself," said Diana. Clark had to admit she was right: Bruce was fighting bare-chested, and his abdominal muscles looked even more chiseled than Clark remembered--though maybe he'd just tried not to notice them too much before. He was wearing tight black spandex pants and the luchador-style mask that covered his whole head, leaving only his lower face visible. The small black ears jutted up above the mask, giving him an appearance that was simultaneously spooky and jaunty.

Clark, of course, was wearing his ridiculous full-body black outfit with the white ruffles. He thought he had resigned himself to it, but now he wasn't so sure. 

"Okay, let's start with that clawhold," said Bruce. "How much air can we get?"

It turned out they could get Bruce all the way to the ropes if Clark basically threw him backwards. He staggered back, clutching at his head as though his brain was about to start leaking out his eyes. There was a smattering of applause from the wrestlers and roadies hanging out in the stands and watching them practice with half their attention. "That's pretty great," Bruce said as he ricocheted off the ropes and back to a standing position. "You can give a big dramatic monologue about draining their psychic energy--"

"--Well, Milton can," said Clark, and Bruce grimaced.

"That's right, you're a silent monster. Such a shame, you're awesome on the mic. But I love the direction you took that." He clapped his hands together. "I think you can get that to work. Now show me that armbar so I can tell you you're doing it wrong."

Ignoring Clark's snort, he sat down on the mat, legs out in front of him. "Start with the back approach you like," he said. "Go through it slowly first."

Clark sat down behind him, hooking his legs around his waist, and wrapped his arms around Bruce's torso, grabbing his arms. "Okay, it starts like this after a throw," he said. Pulling Bruce's arms over his head, he shifted to a right angle so his legs were pinning Bruce down across his chest and neck. He trapped Bruce's arm between his legs and grabbed the wrist, stretching it away from the body. He pulled down and felt Bruce's body shift underneath him, adjusting to the tension in the stretch. "Then I can wrench the arm like this--" 

"--and it looks like you're about to break their elbow, nice," finished Bruce, still lying on the mat with Clark's legs draped over him. "Good heel move. I can't believe you were saving that move for a face persona, it looks vicious."

"Well, I would only have used it on really bad heels," protested Clark. 

Bruce shrugged slightly, and the motion made Clark suddenly aware that his legs were practically clamped around Bruce's arm. "Still better as a heel move," he said as Clark released his hand and scrambled to his feet. "But like I was telling Dick, I think from the back is the wrong approach. Not enough dominance, and the Kryptonian is all about dominance, right?"

"Uh, right," said Clark, glancing uneasily out at the seats. Scott Free and Darkseid were chatting near the back, Diana still reading, Pamela was doing some embroidery and talking with a bored Selina as they sat on the ramp.

"So start off by getting on top of your opponent after a throw." Bruce lay down on his back again. "Ready?"

Clark straddled him and looked down. Bruce was beneath him, his bare chest sheened very lightly with sweat, his eyes bright under the cowl. "Ready."

"Now put me in a cobra clutch," said Bruce, raising himself slightly off the mat. 

Clark could feel his thigh muscles bunching under him as he sat up and took a deep breath. _Right. The clutch._ Putting his hand under Bruce's head, Clark pushed Bruce's arm down until he could grab the wrist, in effect wrapping Bruce's own arm around his neck and pinning it to the mat.

"Okay," Bruce said. His voice was slightly strained--the cobra clutch wasn't a comfortable position even if it was kayfabe. "Now flip me over onto my side and roll into the armbar from there."

Clark leaned close, pushed Bruce onto his side, then flipped his legs over Bruce's body again, pinning him and stretching his arm out into the hold as Bruce fell onto his back once more.

"Fantastic," said Bruce. "It's a complex, smart move that still looks brutal as hell. Let's do it again and see if we can do it faster."

Clark got back on top of Bruce and they went back through the motions--lean down and grab Bruce's arm, wrap it around his throat, flip him sideways and pin him, pulling on the arm.

"Mph," said Bruce as Clark rolled into the hold. "That definitely gets a good stretch on. I think you might have an alternative career as a chiropractor if you wash out as a monster."

Clark growled and tugged Bruce's arm, pulling it harder against him. 

"Argh," said Bruce. "Unhand me, you brute, or I shall be forced to tap out and admit yours is the superior strength!"

"That's--" Clark started laughing. "You sound like a swashbuckler, not a wrestler."

Bruce's fingers scrabbled feebly at the fabric of Clark's suit. "My strength...failing. Kryptonian...you have...bested me." His hand went limp. Then he sat up and Clark released his arm. "Again, all in one motion. Like you're asserting your dominance over me, putting me in my place. You're the superior being and you're going to break me if I don't acknowledge it."

Clark's mouth was dry; he nodded and adjusted his position on top of Bruce, resting one hand briefly on Bruce's bare chest as he shifted. "Okay," he said, relieved that his voice sounded relatively normal. "Let's try it again."

This time something went wrong, and when Clark went for the cobra clutch he couldn't get Bruce's arm around his neck smoothly; they stalled out with Clark trying to get a better grip on Bruce's arm.

"Needs work," said Bruce.

"Needs work," agreed Clark. His face was about two inches from Bruce's, and he could feel Bruce's chest rising and falling underneath him.

"I'm...I'm going to need a second," Bruce said, and there was a different kind of strain in his voice this time. 

Clark blinked, then started to laugh again; shifting his legs he settled himself more firmly on top of Bruce's body. "So have we established that I'm the dominant one?" he murmured, letting his weight press against the distinct hardness beneath him.

"Oh, like hell," breathed Bruce, and tried to throw Clark off. But Clark had weight and leverage on his side; he pinned Bruce's arms and clamped his knees tight. Bruce bucked his hips up against him as if to throw him off, then did it again with an added shimmy thrown in, and the smile on his face was so wicked it made Clark feel dizzy.

Clark leaned forward, adjusting his pin, until his lips were right next to Bruce's ear. "Is this wrestling or foreplay?" he whispered.

He felt Bruce's laugh resonate in his own body. "Is there a difference?" Bruce retorted. He tried to throw Clark off again; this time he managed to toss him to the side. A flurry of moves ensued--block, feint, lunge, feint--and Clark found himself on his stomach on the mat with Bruce straddling him, arms wrapped around his neck. They were both breathing heavily, and Clark took advantage of the new position to slide forward as if he were trying to break free, letting his spandex suit rake along Bruce's erection. 

Bruce groaned and Clark felt him grind down slightly as if he couldn't help himself. "God, you are so good," he said under his breath, leaning close enough that his ragged breaths shuddered directly in Clark's ear. His arms tightened around Clark's neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to make giddy sparks dance in front of his eyes. "We are going back to your hotel room after this and I am going to fuck you all--night--long."

"Not--if I fuck you first," Clark gasped. Bruce's bare arm across his throat was slick with sweat; pretending to struggle against it he bent his head, brought his mouth to Bruce's forearm, and sucked hard at the flesh there, nibbling, licking, tasting salt.

Bruce made an agonized sound and released him abruptly, rolling away and onto his own stomach next to him. They laid there side by side, sides heaving.

"I'm going to make you beg for mercy," Bruce growled. "Just you wait. I'm going to make you scream."

"You're just mad I beat you," Clark shot back.

 _"Beat me?"_ Bruce sounded incredulous. "May I remind you _I_ was the one who had _you_ in the facelock?"

"It was obvious you couldn't take any more. You were just about to break, right there in the ring. I win."

"Guys?" Pamela Isley looked up from her embroidery and flipped her hair back. "I don't want to interrupt your tender reunion, but Selina and I have the ring reserved from, oh…"

Selina lifted her bare wrist and stared at it in elaborate pantomime. "About ten minutes ago," she said.

"Okay, okay. Just let us, uh, cool down a little," said Clark.

They lay there on their stomachs, breathing heavily. "Baseball statistics," said Clark. "Starting lineups of the Kansas City Royals for the last ten years."

"I conjugate Arabic verbs," said Bruce.

"You--" Clark broke off. "You know what? Never mind."

Bruce dropped his head onto his hands and Clark realized his shoulders were shaking with laughter. "You were right," he said, his voice pitched to not carry outside the ring.

"About what?"

"I could not have taken one more minute of that without-- Yeah. You win."

"I'll give you a rematch in my hotel room in a few hours," Clark murmured. "We'll see who'll submit when it really matters."

Bruce didn't respond. After a moment, Clark realized he was muttering something under his breath. 

It sounded like Arabic.


	29. The Dark Knight Descends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce's relationship moves forward, and Bruce makes his debut against the Joker.

_ No wonder young men were beating one another silly. Nowhere else did they gather in such great numbers to watch a show of nearly naked men tussling in one another’s arms until, in the end, they lay on the mat like exhausted lovers. It had to be unsettling, if only unconsciously, watching a kind of highly ritualized performance of male intercourse. --Thomas Hackett _

"God damnit, you've got a lot of nerve," said Bruce as the hotel door closed behind them and he grabbed Clark's hands, slamming him against the wall. He buried his face in the crook of Clark's neck, kissing and biting in equal measure. "Giving me those looks. I almost took you right there in the locker room showers, did you know that?"

_"You_ are the one who stripped all your clothes off right there in front of me," Clark said. 

"It's a _locker room_ , Clark--it's where people are _supposed_ to get undressed."

Clark tangled his fingers in Bruce's soft, clean hair and pulled his head back with some effort--Bruce hissed with pleasure and pain, and when Clark let go he latched greedily onto his mouth.

"Getting undressed," Clark said with some effort between kisses, "is not the same as stripping. And you were definitely doing the latter." Bruce chose this moment to bite his lower lip in the middle of a kiss; growling, Clark tried to steer them into the room and onto the bed, but it was difficult when Bruce's leg kept getting between his, setting him to rutting up against him with breathless abandon. Bruce's hands fumbled at Clark's belt buckle as they thumped into another wall, undid his fly as they knocked over a floor lamp, shoved his jeans down as they collided with a chest of drawers, and managed to get his underwear off before the edge of the bed caught him at the back of the knees and he tumbled backwards onto the bed, followed by Clark.

"I'm on top," Clark observed triumphantly, then gasped as Bruce's hands groped under his t-shirt, flicking at his nipples.

"Yes, I can tell you're totally in control of the situation," Bruce observed. "That's why you're half-naked and I'm still fully dressed." He grabbed Clark's bare hips and scooted upward until he was sitting up against the headboard, Clark still straddling his lap. "I want to look at you," he said.

"You've seen me naked hundreds of times," protested Clark.

"Not like this," said Bruce. "Not hard for me, not wanting my touch." He reached out almost tentatively and stroked his index finger slowly along the length of Clark's cock, circling the head. 

"Trust me," said Clark with a groan, "Every time you've seen me, you've seen me wanting your touch."

"Such a romantic," murmured Bruce. "So, now that you've got me pinned and _helpless_ \--" At the last word he wrapped his fingers around Clark's cock, smirking as Clark made an inarticulate noise, "--what are you going to do with me?"

Clark was no longer exactly sure; all concrete plans had disappeared into the rush of sensation Bruce's touch was eliciting. He shifted his weight against Bruce's denim-clad body, just heavy enough to pull a gasp from him. "Thought I'd make you come," he said.

Bruce made a small, breathless sound, halfway between a laugh and moan. "I'll make you come first," he said, and started to jack Clark off. His hand was warm and strong, just rough enough to add extra pleasure, and Clark bit his lip hard.

"Has everything got to be--" A particularly deft stroke made him stop and catch his breath, "--be a competition with you?"

"Yes," Bruce said, as if surprised Clark had missed something so obvious. "But on the plus side, it's a competition in which we get to work together to enjoy ourselves. Because even _after_ I bring you to a screaming climax, I do expect you to return the favor."

Clark shook his head, reaching down behind his back to cup Bruce's balls through his jeans. "No no," he said. "A gentleman always finishes last."

Bruce snorted and bucked his hips to delightful effect. "You're a heel, Clark. Breaking kayfabe is a serious offense, I should give you a major tongue-lashing for that."

"Oh God," said Clark. "That would be hot. Do it."

Bruce changed hands, and the fleeting lack of contact made Clark whimper. "Okay," he said breathlessly, "You've got some weird bedroom kinks. I like that. I'm saving that idea for later."

"This isn't fair," Clark observed, trying to keep his voice even as he rotated his hips. "You've still got clothes on."

"Where did you get the idea this was _fair_?" Bruce laughed, but the laugh was interrupted by a small gasp of pleasure. "It's all--all rigged," he went on. "The winner is pre-determined. You might as well give up now."

Indeed, it was getting difficult to focus on anything except Bruce's touch. "No way," he managed to pant. "I've finally got you where I want you, and I'm not--not giving in." Except that his body didn't seem to give a damn about this bizarre competition, and the point of no return was rapidly dwindling into the past. He made an inarticulate noise and ground up hard against Bruce's body, no longer aiming for any specific reaction, just enjoying the feel of it.

"Clark," said Bruce, his voice nearly a gasp. But his tone of voice was much less important than the fact that _his hand had stopped moving_ , which was unbearable--

"Don't stop, _please_ ," Clark stammered, shuddering, rocking back and forth, _wanting_.

Bruce growled something and stroked him hard: once, twice--and then it was too much, and heat shot through him, his climax shaking him until he finally was able to collapse sideways as if he'd taken a Kesagiri chop to the neck, all his muscles going blissfully lax.

It took him a moment to collect himself, but finally he was able to reach out and undo the button on Bruce's fly. "You said I'd have to return the favor," he muttered blurrily when Bruce grabbed his hand.

"No need," said Bruce, and the sheepishness in his voice made Clark prop himself up on an elbow and narrow his eyes.

"Do you mean--"

"--Let's just call it a tie," said Bruce.

"A tie."

"It was...well, it was really close."

Clark snorted as Bruce got up and disappeared into the bathroom. There were tantalizing sounds of running water and rustling cloth, and then Bruce re-appeared by the bed.

"That's my bathrobe," Clark said.

Bruce spun around, spreading out his arms. "No feathers or sequins, but I think it suits me. At least it's purple, which is fairly garish."

Clark snagged the end of the sash as it went by and tugged. "Come here."

Bruce crawled back into bed and Clark wrapped his arms around him. "You know," said Bruce after a while, "You don't know much of anything about me. You haven't met my foster-father, you haven't seen my--"

He stilled as Clark kissed him. "It's okay," said Clark. "We're not married or anything, you know? This is…" He broke off as a yawn seized him. "This is all good. We can just have fun and be friends, we don't have to be soul mates. Don't worry about it, just enjoy it."

Bruce was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled Clark closer, pressed a kiss into his hair. "I intend to enjoy every minute," he murmured. "Especially if you can ever get that armbar right."

* * *

Clark was a little afraid at first that this new _status quo_ between him and Bruce would lead to awkwardness, but nothing major seemed to change. They spent a lot more time together--working out, practicing moves, hanging out backstage during downtime, then having sex until they fell asleep exhausted in each others' arms--but once they found a way around the problem of getting turned on while practicing, everything mostly went smoothly.

Bruce's solution to the problem turned out to be "make sure to have sex a couple of times just before practice," and that was a solution Clark could live with.

"I just wish they'd put you in an angle against me," Clark complained one evening they lay tangled together in a seedy motel room in Boston. "What are they waiting for? Dick's wrestling, why haven't they put you into any matches?"

"Luthor says they're talking with the Japanese League about whether I'll be able to keep the El Murciélago name," Bruce said. "It got over really big there, but they don't want me to use it in the States. That's okay, though, I've got a different take on the basic idea I'd love to try anyway."

"Also bat-based?"

"Of course."

"Of course?" Clark propped himself up on one arm and squinted at Bruce. "Have you got some kind of bat-fetish you didn't tell me about? Because I think I deserve to know about that."

Bruce chuckled and drew his finger across Clark's bare chest in a sweeping, swooping motion. "Okay, here's the story. For a while when I was younger I worked for a promotion in Nepal."

"There's professional wrestling in Nepal," Clark said in disbelief.

"Well…" Bruce grimaced. "It was a little more vicious than that. It was shoot fighting--people tended to get hurt for real. I was traveling around, just kind of hitchhiking wherever the road took me, and the promoter took me in. Said he saw promise in me." There was a bruise on Clark's shoulder; Bruce leaned forward and kissed it briefly. "I worked for him for a while. Longer than I'm proud of. He was very intense, and he seemed to have the answer to everything. He told me to make a gimmick of what I feared the most, that there was a power in that. And I fear…" He paused and shuddered. "I fear bats."

"So you had a bat gimmick because some mystical guru promoter told you to embrace your fear?"

Bruce didn't seem to find that statement dubious. "And he was right, Clark," he announced, his eyes shining. "When I became the Bat, I could feel the power of my own fear channeled outward, strengthening me. It was the first time I had felt at peace in years. He was right about that." A deep, slow breath. "He was wrong about a lot of other things, though. When he told me to deliberately break a man's leg in the ring, I told him to go to hell and walked away."

"I have to say, your training is a lot more interesting than my practicing suplexes on a mattress in my basement," Clark said. 

"Ah, but your power comes from your pure heart, while mine comes from my fears."

"My pure heart," Clark snickered.

"Don't be cynical," said Bruce, kissing him. "It doesn't suit you."

* * *

Brainiac flinched away as Hal Jordan was joined by another figure in green at the top of the entrance ramp, also brandishing a ring. "A Green Lantern never stands alone!" announced John Stewart.

"The Kryptonian will crush both of you!" blustered Brainiac as the Kryptonian glowered from inside the ring.

"And what if there are more?" said Kyle Rayner, joining them.

"Your malign influence will never triumph while good men are here to stop you!" cried Jordan.

"And not just men!" The crowd erupted with applause as two women came to stand beside the three men and they recognized Jade, daughter of Alan Scott, and Soranik Natu, daughter of Sinestro. Jade smiled and continued, "The Green Lantern Corps will stand against you, Kryptonian!"

In unison, they saluted and started to chant: "In brightest day, in blackest night--"

Clark twisted his face into contorted fury as they went through the oath, the audience joining in until the rafters shook. _I hope Guy doesn't see this, he'll be livid._ Creating a cadre of Green Lanterns to stand against the Kryptonian was the next step in the storyline, according to Luthor--when Bruce heard the news he had whistled, impressed. "The Kryptonian is taking on the current belt-holder and he needs a stable of people to fight back? That's the big time, Clark."

"The Kryptonian demands that you fight him! He is willing to fight you all at once!" yelled Brainiac.

"That wouldn't be fair," said Stewart. "Any one of us can send him crying back to his home planet." He strode forward, contempt written plain on his face, and got into the ring. "Fight me, Kryptonian! You'll see we won't be intimidated by you."

The bell rang and the two foes surged forward to clash in the middle of the ring as the audience shrieked.

The script called for the Kryptonian to lose--a rare event indeed, especially to a wrestler new to the promotion. But as Clark worked with him, he could see why Luthor had chosen Stewart to be his most recent rival--Stewart had an uncanny ring sense, always knowing exactly where the ropes and turnbuckles were, never missing a spot. The Kryptonian got him into a half-nelson, twisting his arms up from behind, and it looked like the match was over. But then Stewart seemed to make a tremendous effort of will and threw him off, swiveling to deliver his Architect of Destruction, a running swinging neckbreaker move. 

The Kryptonian toppled like a tree, and Clark could hear the announcers yelling in excitement as Stewart covered him for the pin. As the three-count came off, Stewart jumped up and pumped his fist. As he turned his back on his fallen foe, the Kryptonian lashed out with a vicious kick that caught him in the back of the legs. The rest of the Green Lanterns swarmed forward in outrage and a free-for-all followed in which the enraged Kryptonian threw Kyle and Jade out of the ring before a panicked Brainiac managed to calm him down enough to stop the brawl.

"Good match," John Stewart said backstage later, holding out his hand.

"The first of many, I hope," said Clark, taking it.

* * *

On-camera, the Kryptonian was terrorizing and tyrannizing the entire DCW. Even Lex Luthor wasn't safe from his malign influence--there was a sequence of segments where Brainiac, rubbing his hands together and leering, would inform Luthor of some match the Kryptonian wanted booked, some action he wanted performed. "Put Azrael in a match against Mr. Miracle." "Make that match between Wonder Woman and Poison Ivy a falls-count-anywhere match." In vain would Luthor protest that Mr. Miracle was injured, that Poison Ivy's ability to mind-control the audience would give her too large of an advantage: Brainiac would just cross his arms and smile. Each segment ended with the Kryptonian suddenly appearing behind Luthor to glare silently at him until the sweating General Manager let him have his way.

"Kind of ironic, considering I'm only playing this heel role at his command," Clark said a trifle bitterly, stabbing a baked potato. "Does he get pleasure at pretending I'm the one calling the shots?"

"That poor potato never did anything to you," Bruce said, and Clark put the knife down with a sigh. "I found out who I'm going to be going against in my debut angle," he added.

Clark put away the hope that it was going to be the Kryptonian: Bruce would never have waited so long to mention it if that were true. "Yes?"

"The Joker. I'm not going to be officially signed by the company, I'm going to play a mystery outsider who shows up to interrupt some of his Comedy Routines."

Clark shuddered at the mention of the Joker's _modus operandi_ , in which after defeating an opponent he would mock them mercilessly while walking around them and kicking at their defenseless body. "That should be satisfying."

Bruce leaned forward, suddenly animated. "It will, won't it? The mysterious stranger coming in out of nowhere to halt cruelty and end sadism? The crowd will get a lot of satisfaction from that. Napier's a good worker, we should be able to have some good matches. Terrible sense of humor, but boy, can he sell. And I cleared it with Luthor that I can enter via harness, coming down from the rafters--I checked with Dick too," he added at Clark's involuntary twitch, "and he says he doesn't mind, we can't have a ban on that kind of entrance forever. Imagine it, Clark--Joker is beating some unfortunate up when suddenly, swooping down from above on a flutter of shadowy wings--The Dark Knight!"

His face was rapt, far away. Clark watched it for a moment. "Is that your new name?"

"I hope so. What do you think?"

"It sounds good." Clark knew his voice sounded grudging; he smiled to try and add enthusiasm. He wasn't sure if he was more jealous of Bruce for getting to finally fight bullies while he was still stuck _being_ a bully, or of Napier for having a chance to work with Bruce in the ring. "It sounds...really good."

Bruce looked at him for a moment, then covered Clark's hand with his own, briefly. "You'll have your chance," he said, and Clark wasn't sure if he meant at being a face, or at working with him.

Probably both, knowing Bruce.

* * *

"Did you hear?" Dick Grayson vaulted over a couch in the common room and landed between Clark and Bruce. "Zucco changed his plea to no contest to involuntary manslaughter. The judge gave him ten years."

"No trial, then?" Clark punched the arm of the couch. "I would have liked the chance to testify against him."

Dick grimaced and shook his head. "I don't know. I--" He broke off and stood up, pacing across the room restlessly. "I didn't want to testify," he blurted out. "I didn't want to relive that night for a bunch of staring strangers, I didn't want to have to hear the questions about my family's 'unique and colorful profession,' I didn't want to have to be the pitiful orphan boy. I--maybe I'm just a coward," he finished bitterly, smacking a fist against the wall.

_"Never,"_ snapped Bruce, with a vehemence that startled Clark. "Not you, Dick. Your parents would be proud of you." He stopped and looked at Dick, whose back was still to them, as if he suspected he should say something more but wasn't sure what. "I know I am," he finally said, almost apologetically, as if ashamed to offer something so paltry.

Dick whirled and flung himself onto the couch to hug Bruce. "Thank you," he muttered.

Bruce patted him on the back and looked at Clark with an expression of panic that would be almost humorous if it weren't so transparently sincere. _What did I do?_ he mouthed at Clark over Dick's shaking shoulders.

"You idiot," said Clark, and reached out to ruffle his hair roughly.

* * *

Bruce's debut as the Dark Knight was everything he could have hoped for. Clark watched it unfold on the monitors: Joker terrorizing a cringing Killer Moth, one of their third-tier heels; a silent swoop out of the shadows, and Clark could _hear_ the audience catch its collective breath as a figure in a black cowl and a cape of rippling silk descended from the ceiling. "Is he a friend of Killer Moth's? Is he some old rival of the Joker's?" Clark heard the announcers speculate breathlessly as the two squared off in the ring and the hapless Killer Moth squirmed under the ropes and away. "Who is this silent guardian, this dark knight, and what does he mean for the DCW?"

The confrontation itself was short--"Leave them wanting more," Bruce had said--and inconclusive. Joker used his Joy Buzzer suplex on the interloper, but the Dark Knight shook off the jolt of electricity. He tossed something on the mat and there was a flash, a gout of smoke--the stadium lights went out, and when they came up again the Joker was alone in the ring, baffled and furious.

The announcers began a spirited argument about whether that escape had been a cowardly action or a canny ninja strategy. It was all all part of the marketing of the storyline: no one was supposed to be sure at first if this Dark Knight was actually a face or just a heel with a grudge against the Joker. But the audience didn't need the announcers to pique their interest, Clark could tell just from watching their faces as the Dark Knight and the Joker had fought. They were riveted and rapt, on the edge of their seats. He had them, Bruce finally had them exactly where he'd always wanted them: along for the ride, carried breathlessly on the wings of vengeance.

There was spontaneous applause as Bruce came into the locker room. He stopped and bowed, laughing, his hair damp and rumpled from the cowl. 

"Nice work," said Jack Napier. He had wavered on whether to resent the storyline or not and eventually settled on a tone of amused condescension. "Your timing was a bit off on the second clothesline, but I'm sure you'll shake off the ring rust soon."

"That cape is a nice touch," said Hal, emerging from the showers with a towel around his waist. 

"If it fit my gimmick I'd totally have a cape," said Ollie, absent-mindedly flicking his towel at Hal's posterior as he went by. "The ladies love capes. You just watch, you'll have fans lining up to come back to your hotel room and get busy on the cape. It's like a silk sheet but better."

"Is that so?" Bruce replied, shooting Clark a speculative look.

"I'll vouch for that," said Billy Batson, and attempted to go into detail before the rest of the locker room made it clear in no uncertain terms that they did not want to hear his stories of cape-related sexual prowess.

* * *

It was, Clark was happy to confirm later, indeed like silk sheets but better.

* * *

The Dark Knight continued to appear and disappear, interrupting unfair matches--usually interfering with the Joker, but sometimes with other heels. People noticed that he was more likely to swoop in when Robin was the victim, and there was speculation: were they brothers? Knowledgable fans pointed out he was probably the same person as that wrestler from Japan who'd teamed up with Robin there, but the average fan, unaware of the international scene, just thrilled to the daring rescues. Now and then they even tag-teamed, with the Dark Knight arriving always at the very last moment, wrestling unspeaking at Robin's side, then vanishing again.

Bruce seemed to be having the time of his life. He was always working on some new pose, some more expressive glower. He was finally exactly who he wanted to be.

* * *

"But--I think this is really working." Bruce's voice was almost forlorn as he stared at Dick. "I think it's perfect."

"Perfect for _you,_ sure." Dick sighed loudly and leaned against his locker. "But for me--how can I make you understand this? I'm _tired_ of being the Boy Hostage, Bruce. I'm tired of having other people always swooping in to save me, as if I'm a child who's incompetent to save himself."

"I don't--"

"--I know you don't think that," Dick said. "It's just--I need to get out from under your shadow. I need to be my own wrestler, not a sidekick."

"I've never thought of you as a sidekick," said Bruce. His voice was quiet but there was a lurking hurt in his eyes that anyone who didn't know him well might have missed entirely. 

Dick shot Clark a look that revealed he hadn't missed it at all. "Bruce, I--"

"No, you're right," said Bruce. "Times change. Gimmicks change. We could even make an angle of it." He nodded, the hurt--not fading, but tucked away, hidden beneath the familiar kindling of enthusiasm. "Have the Dark Knight come to the rescue and have Robin chew him out, tell him he needs to stand on his own two feet and can't become his own man like this."

"Bruce--"

"--Maybe they can even have a good brawl over it--we've never worked a match together, it would be a good opportunity. I bet we could put on a show they'd never forget. I'll pitch it to Luthor, I think he'll love it--he's a big fan of dissention in the ranks and all that." Bruce paced the room, manic energy driving his steps. "Are you thinking of changing your name?"

"Yeah," said Dick. "I was thinking maybe Nightwing."

Bruce stopped and looked at him.

"If you--" Dick looked at the wall. "--I mean, robins and bats don't actually have much connection, and I kind of wanted to pick a name that would reflect how--how much you've taught me and how important you've been to me. Just a little. If you don't mind."

"I don't mind," said Bruce. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'd be honored."

"Really?"

Bruce nodded wordlessly. Clark wondered if he should tell Dick later that Bruce had a hard time with words when they really mattered, but when he saw Dick's expression he realized he wasn't going to have to.

As if throwing his worries aside, Dick beamed at them both. "Let me show you some of my ideas for a costume!" he announced, grabbing a notebook and riffling through pages of yellow and bright blue sketches.

Clark managed to keep Bruce from revoking his approval after seeing Dick's costume plans, but it was a near thing.


	30. Teamups and Breakups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Knight loses a sidekick, the Joker acquires a valet, and the DCW has a new champion.

_ When you know each other on a personal, more intimate level, it just opens up the door for chemistry in the ring --Eddie Guerrero _

"Of all the stupid--surgery? I can't have surgery!" Hal Jordan looked as if he'd throw something at Lex Luthor, if he could only lift his right arm. "I'm the champion! I'm the belt holder!"

"Feel free to throw a punch at me to prove your point," said Luthor. Jordan winced slightly at the thought, and Luthor went on: "What you are is an ex-employee of the DCW if you don't get that rotator cuff repaired." He looked out at the rest of the wrestlers, sitting uncomfortably on their folding chairs in the meeting room. "And if Jordan is going to be out for a couple of months, there are going to have to be some changes around here."

The room went still as the implications sank in: the championship was going to have to pass to another wrestler. Jordan and Sinestro had been swapping it back and forth for years, as the bookers felt Green Lantern and his greatest enemy had the best in-ring chemistry and most compelling storylines--not to mention moved the most merchandise. But Luthor probably wouldn't have called a meeting to tell them Sinestro was getting another championship run, that was old news. No, it had to be someone new. Everyone looked around, assessing, and Bruce caught Clark's eye and raised an eyebrow: _This should be interesting._

"We've decided to put the belt on…" Luthor paused and there was a combination of eye-rolling at the theatrics and honest anticipation. "...John Stewart."

Everyone looked at Stewart, who crossed his arms and looked at Luthor and his toothy grin. "And if I say no?" Stewart said.

Luthor's grin vanished. "'Say...no'?" he said as if Stewart had suggested he might just eat a handful of live worms.

"Let's not bullshit each other here," said Stewart, leaning forward. The other wrestlers shifted uneasily. "Icon's the only black champion who's ever held the belt for more than a month. Hell, you made Martian Manhunter champ and then booked him to lose to Jordan _the next show._ It was a damn insult, that's what it was."

There were supportive mutterings from among the wrestlers, none of whom had forgotten the events that precipitated John Jones leaving the DCW for the JLI. 

Luthor gritted his teeth. "I'm not going to apologize for the past. You're good on the mic, you're a good worker, I'll tell you I plan to keep you champion for longer than that, but there are no promises or long-term guarantees in this business. If you'd rather I give it to someone else, I can arrange that."

"Brother," said Waylon Jones from the side of the room, "A short run's better than none."

Stewart still looked dubious. "I won't turn heel to take it from Jordan."

Luthor looked honestly surprised. "The Corps is our best merchandise-mover, I'm not messing with that. No, we'll have Sinestro as a transitional heel champion, he can injure Jordan and take the belt, then you'll come back and get revenge on him."

"All right, that I can live with," Stewart said with a wicked smile--he and Sinestro had never gotten along.

"I'm not handing off the belt to--" Sinestro cut off under Luthor's ice-cold glare.

"The Corps has other enemies I could utilize," Luthor pointed out. "You are not, strictly speaking, necessary--no matter how friendly you are with the head booker. You are, to be blunt, expendable." He looked around the room. "Anyone who thinks they're not expendable, please do raise your hand and let me know."

Sinestro set his jaw into the silence and said nothing more, casting a last glare at the grinning Stewart.

"Other changes," said Luthor with the brisk tone of someone moving on. "I think it's time to get the Dark Knight more fully integrated into the roster. First, we're going to reveal that he's Robin's mentor, who's been training him in secret and has come to the DCW to protect him. Then Grayson is going to have a big falling-out with him and change his gimmick. Lots of drama potential there." He looked down at his papers. "And the Dark Knight will start up a storyline with the Kryptonian."

Clark sat up straighter, resisting the urge to shoot a grin at Bruce, as Luthor continued.

"The Green Lantern Corps is going to be dealing with other issues with Stewart as the head, so I think it's time the Dark Knight start interfering with the Kryptonian. We'll launch the angle at the next pay-per-view. You two work out the details," he said, waving a hand at them.

"You really trust them?" blurted Copperhead. "After they--" He fell silent, carefully not looking at Dick Grayson. Bruce and Clark's role in Zucco's trial was an open secret, not discussed in the locker room.

"I don't trust them to make my business decisions," said Luthor. "But I do trust them to run a damn fine storyline. Any further stupid questions?"

There were none.

"Back to work, then," said Luthor, and they were dismissed.

* * *

"So what's the script? You gonna clock him?"

Dick Grayson shook his head at Oliver Queen, smiling. "Don't know yet."

Oliver frowned. "You don't--but the match is in twenty minutes. You haven't practiced this? You don't know what he's going to say?"

"I don't need to," said Dick. "He swoops down and rescues me from Two-Face, and then we wing it. We've always winged it."

"You guys are crazy," Ollie said.

"It's got to come from the heart, he taught me that," said Dick. "You can't just read a prepared speech, it's got to be inspired. You have to feel the crowd, adapt to them. Milwaukee isn't the same as Detroit, and last week isn't the same as this week. It's all about rhythm and flow and _kairos_. That's Greek for 'the supreme moment, the perfect timing,'" He explained to Ollie's puzzled face.

"Okay," said Ollie as cautiously as if he were talking with a dangerous lunatic. "You...you have fun with your _kairos._ "

Dick shook his head as Ollie backed away slowly, and looked at Clark. "Is it that crazy?"

"Not everyone can do it," said Clark.

"But you can, right? I've seen your older matches with Billionaire Brucie. You do the same thing."

Clark shrugged. "I try. I can't always keep up with Bruce, though."

"Who can?" laughed Dick, putting on his black domino for the last time.

* * *

"Don't you get it?" Robin held out one hand, appealing to the black-clad figure who stood before him, unspeaking. "I need to be my own man."

No answer.

"You taught me a lot, and I appreciate that. But you can't rescue me from every scrape I get into!"

The Dark Knight still didn't respond, and Robin looked around at the audience for support. He received it in a round of cheers, and when he lifted the mic again he seemed emboldened.

"Don't you see? It's time for me to step outside your shadow. I'm ready."

The Dark Knight tilted his head slightly, as if considering. He stepped forward. Robin smiled and stepped toward him as well.

And then the Dark Knight backhanded him across the face, one sharp and brutal blow that seemed to resound through the arena.

Robin staggered backward, dropping the mic and falling to his knees, clutching his face. The Dark Knight picked up the fallen mic, held it up, and spoke his first words in the DCW:

"You are not ready."

Then he dropped the mic by Robin's kneeling body, turned in a swirl of cape, and left.

* * *

"That was fantastic!" Dick was laughing, an ice pack pressed to his eye. "Did you hear them gasp? There was a woman in the front row, I think she was crying. _Fantastic!_ "

Bruce peeled back the ice pack and winced more than Dick did. "I thought you saw that punch coming."

"Of course I did," said Dick. "But I thought it'd look more convincing if I just took it. You'd never do any real damage."

"You'll have an truly impressive shiner tomorrow," said Luthor from the locker room doorway. "So I guess we'll wait until then to shoot your promo. Then it's off to Europe and your quest of self-discovery for you."

Dick sighed as Luthor left. "It'll be weird, traveling without you."

"There'll be a place for Nightwing here when you get back," said Bruce.

From the monitors, the announcers' voices picked up in pitch and volume; everyone in the room turned to look at the match on the screen, where Sinestro was busily stomping Hal Jordan's shoulder, making him flop in agony on his way to winning the belt. 

"Listen to them," Bruce said in disgust.

"Listen to what?" said Harvey, lacing up his boots.

"Exactly," said Bruce. "The audience isn't into this at all, they've seen these two trade the belt back and forth too often. Time to shake things up." He grinned at Clark. "And speaking of that, I've got some plans for our angle. Long-term ones. Shall we go discuss them?"

Clark grinned and grabbed his coat, knowing that when Bruce said "making long-term plans for our angle," what he really meant was…

...Well, most likely, actually discussing long-term plans for their angle together. 

That didn't mean that was _all_ they'd do, however.

* * *

"I don't need a valet!" Napier was practically dancing with outrage. "Why are you constantly mucking with my gimmick, Luthor? It's bad enough you halted the Dark Knight angle--"

"--you'll still wrestle the Dark Knight, just not exclusively," said Luthor.

Napier gnashed his teeth. "But to give me a valet! I don't need to share the limelight with anyone!"

"Oh, but I insist," said Luthor. "And I'm sure your wife and that charming little daughter of yours won't mind."

Napier tore at his hair, then slumped, defeated. "All right. What is it?"

"Allow me to introduce...Dr. Quinzel, your new therapist!"

Everyone stared as a young woman with her hair in two blond pigtails, wearing an outfit that could have been marketed as a "sexy nurse costume" sashayed into the room. "Hiya, everyone," she chirped with a wave. "Nice to meetcha all!" She had a pronounced Brooklyn accent and appeared to be chewing gum. "I'm just so thrilled to be really wrestlin', it's been a dream of mine since I was really little! And when I saw the Joker, I just knew I was meant to work with him, y'know? It's kismet!"

Everyone stared. Clark saw Selina and Ivy trading incredulous looks.

"We're going to have Joker enter therapy for his anger issues," said Luthor. He waved a hand at Napier, who was standing with his jaw actually hanging open. "Come on, it'll be hilarious!"

"I'm not working with her," sputtered Napier. "She'll slow me down, dilute the genius of my promos!" He whirled, glaring at Luthor. "I'm the best performer you've got and you know it, Luthor, and I'm not going to let you hobble my genius by taking away my best rival and saddling me with--with this bimbo faux psychologist!"

 _"Cool,"_ said Quinzel, tilting her head to the side. "This is just what I thought you'd be like backstage: the demands for constant and unceasing admiration and positive reinforcement, the belittling of others in order to shore up your own lack of self-worth, unrealistic expectations of special treatment, deep envy of others while believing everyone envies you--textbook narcissistic personality disorder, yep!" She smiled brightly at him. "I'd almost go with a histrionic personality disorder instead, but that's got all that 'using sexual seduction and flirtation to get your way' angle, and that doesn't seem to be your thing so much. But then, the DSM's description of histrionic personality disorder tends to label as 'disordered' exactly the patterns of behavior _demanded of_ women in our society, so I'm not sure I'm comfortable throwing the term around anyway. Really, pigeonholing personalities into tidy little boxes is just limiting in the long run, I think." 

She shrugged, then seemed to become aware that everyone in the room was staring at her. "Ph.D. in Psychology from Cornell University!" she chirped, blowing a bubble and flashing a cheerful peace-sign at the room. The bubble popped and she grinned. "But my real love is wrestling, y'know?"

"Oh, I _like_ her," said Ivy _sotto voce_ to Selina.

* * *

"You ready?"

Clark didn't jump, even though Bruce's voice had come out of nowhere. He had known Bruce would check in with him before the match started. "Never been more ready."

"Shouldn't you be getting in position?" snapped Milton Fine, fidgeting from foot to foot. He always got the jitters just before performing. Clark supposed that made some sense, since he had to do all the talking for the two of them. 

"I know how long it takes to get in position," said Bruce. "And I know how long this match will be. I've got enough time." He held out his fist for Clark to bump. "This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship," he said.

"Friendship," snapped Brainiac to the empty space Bruce had been in. "The correct quote is 'beginning of a beautiful _friendship._ ""

"Well," said Clark, "That hardly fits when he's going to be my arch-nemesis, does it?" _As well as for other reasons,_ he added mentally.

Brainiac snarled something wordless and might have retorted with more except that the Flash's introduction ended and the lights went out. Time for the Kryptonian's entrance.

Time to start the angle he'd been waiting for.

* * *

The crowd gasped as the Dark Knight descended from the rafters, his dark cape billowing. The Kryptonian stood over the prone Flash like a lion guarding its meat from an impudent jackal, and Brainiac grabbed the mic to intone on his behalf: "No one robs the Kryptonian of his win--not even you, Dark Knight!"

For a long moment they faced off in the ring, two immobile figures in black staring at each other, and Clark felt the atmosphere in the arena coil and tighten. _Wait...wait...let it build…_ He could see the excitement in every line of Bruce's body, waiting for the Kryptonian's assault as you would await a lover's embrace.

When the Kryptonian surged forward and they met in the middle of the ring, it felt like a shock wave went out from their impact, electrifying the audience. The Kryptonian seized the rippling black cape and it came away in his hands, leaving the Dark Knight in his trunks and cowl, grinning. The Kryptonian balled the black silk between his fists. "Petty charlatan, purveyor of cheap tricks!" roared Brainiac. "As I tear this cloth asunder, so shall I tear you!"

The Kryptonian wrenched, and the cape tore with a sheer, liquid sound. Clark spared a brief flicker of regret ( _There'll be another,_ promised Bruce's eyes behind the cowl), then tossed it contemptuously aside as the Dark Knight rushed him.

It was better than before, Clark thought as the Dark Knight slammed the Kryptonian's head into the turnbuckle and he staggered backwards with the recoil, better than with Country Clark Kent and Billionaire Brucie. He rallied and started trading punches with the Knight, his every right hook to the jaw countered by a right hook to the gut in perfect rhythm, a waltz of violence and catharsis. He knew Bruce's body so well now, knew how its very sinews and tendons worked, could read every flex and strain. Bruce's body and eyes spoke to him and his spoke back, as clearly as if they were calling to each other, and it was more intimate and vulnerable and triumphant than anything they had ever done in bed.

They gave the audience thirty minutes of action, and the Dark Knight kicked out of the Kryptonian's armbar three times, each time ratcheting the crowd noise up another notch. It looked bad for the Kryptonian, staggered back against the ropes, reeling, and the Dark Knight was preparing to deliver his finishing move when Brainiac, driven beyond endurance, grabbed at his heels from outside the ring.

The Dark Knight turned to deal with the nuisance, oblivious to the rising roar from the crowd as the Kryptonian rallied his strength, raising his hands--and when the Dark Knight turned away from Brainiac he walked directly into the Psionic Claw. Twisting and writhing, his face seemingly caught in the vise of the Kryptonian's inhumanly strong grip, the Dark Knight went limp and the Kryptonian hurled him across the ring, then rolled his limp body over to pin him for the win. 

They lay there for a moment, feeling their chests rising and falling together with their ragged breaths, victorious together as the crowd shrieked its fury. _This is it,_ Clark realized. _When people talk about the greatest rivalries of all time, they'll mention this match as the beginning._

He couldn't say anything to Bruce without breaking kayfabe; he didn't need to. They were just there together, victor and vanquished, friends and lovers, Clark and Bruce.

Then the Kryptonian arose from his fallen foe and cast a sneering glare at the audience. He left the ring and strode away up the ramp, followed by a cringing Brainiac.

Only when he was past the range of the cameras did he let himself smile.

* * *

The match between Sinestro and John Stewart for the Heavyweight Champion of the World was raging on the monitors as everyone watched. Sinestro had just delivered his Fearmonger spinebuster move, and Stewart was writhing on the mat as Sinestro preened and laughed. "C'mon, Stewart!" hollered a voice from the gathered wrestlers in the locker room. Waylon Jones shrugged a little sheepishly when people turned to look at him. "Got caught up in the moment," he muttered.

But Killer Croc wasn't alone in breaking into spontaneous cheers when Stewart finally got Sinestro into the Emerald Lock, basically making a pretzel of his legs and flipping him onto his stomach to stretch his body and put pressure on all his joints. Sinestro's face contorted with feigned pain and with real fury, and Clark wondered whether the match was booked to end with a humiliating tapout for the champion as another reminder that he was indeed expendable. Whatever the reasons, the cameras lingered lovingly on Sinestro's torment and on John Stewart's implacable resolve, a standoff between two titanic wills. From the monitor, the announcers' voices were lifted in shock or exaltation; the audience was on its feet cheering, and Sinestro made one last abortive attempt to reach the ropes and break the hold, then slammed his hand down on the mat, admitting defeat.

Stewart broke the hold immediately at the bell that signalled the end of the match, rolling away from Sinestro and covering his face with his hands as he gasped for breath. The referee brought over the heavyweight championship belt--ridiculously ornate, gleaming-heavy with gold--and shook Stewart's shoulder, placing it in his arms.

Stewart stared at the belt, and something like wonder dawned on his face as the ovations from the crowd rained down on him. Struggling to his feet, he paused for a long moment before thrusting the belt above his head as a thousand flashbulbs glittered and the crowd noise rose to a deafening pitch. There were tears on his face and he didn't bother to try and wipe them away.

Hal Jordan was the first in line to congratulate him when he came backstage. "Good job," he said, holding out his unbandaged arm for a handshake. "I couldn't ask for a better champion."

All the wrestlers cheered, and although the sound was thin and meagre compared to the rushing roar of the crowd, Stewart bit his lip, his eyes bright. "Thank you," he said to the room. "Your trust means the world to me. I'll do right by this belt, I promise."

Hours later, Clark and Bruce wandered out to take a last look at the auditorium before they headed off to their hotel room (Luthor was more relaxed about heels and faces being seen together than Max Lord, but it still was understood that if you left the auditorium together you'd wait until everyone was gone). They found John Stewart sitting at the top of the ramp, looking out over the hushed arena. He wiped his face as Clark and Bruce sat down next to him. 

"It's funny," he muttered. "It's all fake, you know? I didn't beat Sinestro in a fair fight, I didn't win the belt through my physical prowess, it was all decided in advance. And yet, in the moment when I held that belt and realized I really was the champion…" He trailed off and shrugged.

"It's not fake at all," Bruce said quietly, and Stewart turned to look at him. "You won the belt because you've worked hard, you've got skills, you paid your dues. You're the champion because you never gave up, no matter how much people doubted you. You won that belt not because you're physically stronger than some purple space wizard, but because you're the right man to be the champion, the right man to headline the company. That's winning by willpower, Stewart. That's the only kind of winning that _isn't_ fake."

Stewart looked at him for a long time. Then he nodded slightly. "Thank you," he said. 

The three of them sat at the top of the ramp for a while, looking out at the empty seats and watching the janitors sweeping up. Then Stewart stood up, clapping both of them on the shoulders wordlessly and leaving.

"You always know what to say," Clark said when he was gone.

"About wrestling, maybe," said Bruce. "About everything else…" He shrugged.

"Is there anything besides wrestling?" teased Clark, letting one finger ghost across the back of Bruce's hand. Strange how there was so much physical intimacy in the ring, and so little space for it outside.

Bruce was silent for a time, and Clark realized he was seriously pondering Clark's question. "Not a whole lot," he said at last, and smiled into Clark's eyes as if he were putting something behind him. "Let's go practice the next match again."

"Only if you promise not to break another hotel bed," said Clark, standing up and holding out his hand for Bruce to take. "That was hard to explain to the hotel staff."


	31. Operation:  Double Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kryptonian and the Dark Knight are having the feud of their careers, but Bruce fears the fans are getting complacent.

_ It’s the ability to masturbate people’s emotions, to take them on a ride they can’t get anywhere else. When you can put one or a hundred or a thousand people in the palm of your hand, and make them either love you or hate you, want to put you on their shoulders and carry you out and take you home with them, or kill you in a matter of moments ― my friend, that’s an unbelievable thrill. And when you can look at a child and he’s happy and smiling and you see a sparkle in his eye, that’s great. When you look at the grandmother ready to stab you with a damn pen knife ‘cause she’s pissed at you, you got to love it --Jake "The Snake" Roberts _

A well-timed breeze ruffled Dick Grayson's hair dramatically as he gazed out across the jungles of Mexico. "I came here to find myself," he said in voiceover, "But all I find is more questions. So much more I need to learn before I can return home."

The camera pulled back to reveal him standing at the top of Chichen-Itza. Slowly he turned and began to jog down the steps once more, as if a heavy weight were on his shoulders.

"Kid does good promos," said Oliver Queen as the screen on the locker-room wall switched back to the arena and the next match. 

"Don't call him kid," snapped Bruce, turning over the postcard in his hand. 

"Is that from Mexico?" Clark asked as Ollie rolled his eyes and muttered something about overprotective mentors under his breath.

Bruce held it up to show the bustling cityscape with "Ciudad de Mexico" written across it. "He writes that he loves Mexico--just like he loved Germany, and Denmark, and Poland. He had a lot of fun and made a lot of friends."

"Just like everywhere else," said Clark, and Bruce flashed him a quick smile.

"Just like everywhere else," he agreed. "And he says he misses us all."

A general chorus of _"awwwww"_ s echoed through the locker room: a few sarcastic, most not. Bruce was about to add something when the door burst open and Selina, Ivy, and Harley charged into the locker room, giggling and carrying aloft Wonder Woman's glittering golden lasso like a trophy.

"Hey!" yelled Joker, scrambling for a towel along with a few of the other men. "A little privacy here?"

Harley stopped and kissed him on the cheek. "You're so cute when you think we care about your pale dangly bits," she cooed. "I love you for your twisted mind, Pudding!" She and Ivy collapsed laughing into each others' arms; meanwhile, Selina was looking for somewhere to hide the lasso as sounds from the hall made clear someone very angry was making their way toward the locker room. At the last second she looped it around Clark's neck, just as the door burst open and Wonder Woman descended like a valkyrie into the men's locker room, causing further fluttering scrambling among the male wrestlers.

Selina, Ivy, and Harley all pointed at Clark with elaborately innocent looks on their faces. Diana held out her hand, tapping her foot. 

"I cannot tell a lie," said Clark, unwinding the lasso from around his neck. "It was them." 

"Traitor!" yelled Selina, and they bolted from the room, shrieking with laughter.

Diana sighed and sat down next to Clark and Bruce--the shyer male wrestlers having long retreated to the showers, the rest shrugging and going about their business. "I've never known anyone to be so addicted to pranks and ribs as those three," she said.

"They've got good chemistry," said Bruce absently, frowning at his screen. "I hear Luthor is looking to bring a few new wrestlers up from development to put in an angle against them, since you and Barda are already in that angle against the Furies."

"Well, it better be someone with a very good sense of humor," said Diana, rolling her eyes. "Did you hear they convinced a female fan to flirt with the Prankster and take him home 'for a good time,' and then she pretended her husband had come home with a shotgun?"

"Did I hear about it?" said Clark. "I'm unlikely to forgot the email titled 'The Prankster Pranked!' with pictures of him jumping out the window in his underwear."

The corners of Diana's mouth twitched, very slightly. "I admit it has cooled his ardor for propositioning young fans," she said.

Bruce made a growling noise, still glaring at the laptop. "Unacceptable," he snapped, clearly distracted. "We have to do something about these smarks. Look at this."

"You shouldn't even pay attention to these people," said Diana as he swiveled the computer so they could see the screen.

"They're my audience, I have to keep them on their toes," said Bruce. "See? They think they've got everything figured out, they know the Dark Knight used to be Billionaire Brucie, they know the Kryptonian is Clark Kent. We have to shake it up."

"It's not like it's _that_ hard to figure out," Clark said.

"It's the _attitude_. They're so smug about it," muttered Bruce. "Look at this one--he calls himself Mr. Sarcastic, what a ridiculous name--this kid thinks he knows everything, posts these crazy in-depth videos analyzing all of our matches to death, picking every move apart."

"Dangerously obsessive behavior," Diana agreed solemnly, her eyes dancing.

"Doesn't sound like anyone we know at all," Clark added.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "That's my _job._ I have to understand everything, so I can help the audience suspend disbelief. This kid doesn't have any disbelief to suspend," he said, glaring at Mr. Sarcastic's profile as if personally aggrieved. "Wise guy."

"So what's your plan?" said Diana.

Bruce's smile was a small thing compared to Harley and Ivy's whoops of laughter, but no less mischievous. "I still need to run it by Luthor and the bookers, but here it is," he said.

Three dark heads leaned close together and soon Diana's pleased gurgles of laughter were causing more than one wrestler to look over at them curiously.

* * *

"Mr. Knight! Mr. Knight! Uh, can I call you 'Dark'? No?" Jimmy looked nervous as the Dark Knight turned slowly away from the retreating Kryptonian (an inconclusive staredown having just finished) to face him, his eyes gleaming behind the dark cowl, his form wrapped once more in his vast black cape. "First off, thank you so much for taking time off from your, uh, busy schedule to talk with us."

The Dark Knight inclined his head.

"I know you're, uh, a man of few words. But what are your thoughts on your recent set of clashes with the Kryptonian?"

Backstage, Clark removed his red contacts with the unconscious ease of long practice and listened as the Dark Knight spoke his first words in the DCW since his cruel dismissal of Robin. The Dark Knight looked around the darkened Gotham arena for a long time before speaking, and when he did his voice was a low growl that still managed to reach everyone in the audience clearly:

"I am here for justice."

A long beat, in which the Gotham audience went even stiller to listen. 

"I am here to right wrongs, to fight for the helpless. These bright lights--" He gestured up at the spotlights on them, "--Only serve to make the shadowed souls of the guilty clearer to my eyes. You can love me for that, or you can hate me. It's all the same to me. I live for the battle, I live for the Mission, and nothing else."

Clark smiled slightly, savoring the words. Bruce had run the speech by him a few times, of course, but it was always a little different each time.

"As for the Kryptonian, as long as he tyrannizes the weak and preys on the vulnerable, I shall stand in his way, I shall never cease to oppose him. Yet I suspect…" The Dark Knight paused for just an instant, "I suspect that there is more going on than we have yet seen."

Now Clark blinked. This hadn't been in any of the versions Bruce had let him hear.

"I believe there are forces at work that we do not fully understand," said the Dark Knight to a bewildered Jimmy. "And I will not rest until I have drawn the truth from the shadows in which it lurks." Jimmy tried to ask something else, but he shook his head. "That is all I shall say on the subject," he said, crossing his arms and gazing stonily at the hapless reporter.

"All...all right," stammered Jimmy. Usually his flustered demeanor was kayfabe, but at the moment it seemed more sincere than usual. "Next question: Joker and Killer Croc have challenged you to a tag team match, but with Robin gone--" The Dark Knight gave him a level look and Jimmy loosened his bow tie, swallowed hard, and went on: "Now that Robin's gone, you'll need a tag-team partner to face them. Do you have anyone in mind?"

"I do," said the Dark Knight. "Tonight, here in Gotham, I call upon her lost son to help defeat this menace." 

The crowd's hush sharpened to a buzz as he went on: 

"I call upon Billionaire Brucie to join me in this fight!"

* * *

"Did you hear that roar?"

"I did," said Clark, as patiently as if Bruce hadn't already asked him that five times now. Gotham shows were always like this: if it were a good performance, Bruce would be flying high for hours. 

"It's just too bad Brucie won't actually appear until the Metropolis show."

"Metropolis is a good crowd too," Clark murmured, kissing a bruise starting to blossom on his ribcage, just below his heart. Not every punch could be perfectly pulled, and there was a tender terror in knowing he had put it there.

"It's not Gotham."

"By definition, O grappler of my heart."

Bruce's chest jolted with his snorting laugh, then stilled. "You know, when I'm in Gotham, I usually go home for breakfast after a match. Maybe tomorrow--"

"--I understand," said Clark quickly. "I'll just grab the continental breakfast downstairs and work out until you get back. No problem."

Bruce was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Well," he said with the air of putting a topic of conversation aside, "Stage One of Operation: Double Identity has begun. Now to start planning for Part Two."

"I don't know how you convinced Luthor to run with this," Clark said. 

"Clark," said Bruce with a fond look. "Have you _seen_ the figures on Dark Knight merchandise? I've got some leverage. Also…" He looked slightly uncomfortable for a second. "There might have been something of a tradeoff involved," he muttered, but refused to elaborate.

Clark propped himself up on his elbow to look directly at Bruce. "By the way, what was all that about the Kryptonian in your speech? _Forces at work we don't understand?_ You never mentioned any of that to me."

"Oh, just...laying groundwork. Maybe nothing will come of it. Can't hurt to get some extra mystery out there. Keeps everyone on their toes."

"Including Luthor and the bookers."

Bruce laughed. " _Especially_ Luthor and the bookers."


	32. Tag Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billionaire Brucie and the Dark Knight have a tag team match, and three new female wrestlers are brought up to team up against the Sirens.

_Although the wrestlers are playing pretend, wrestling itself does not pretend to be anything other than what it is—fantastically absurd. --Thomas Hackett_

"No," snapped Bruce, rolling away on the mat in the practice ring. "That's not right. Do it again."

Clark rolled his eyes but didn't protest--not that it was ever any good protesting when Bruce got into a mood like this. Nothing would mollify him but getting it _right,_ so Clark had better get it right.

"You think 'Mr. Sarcastic' is going to be the least bit fooled if you come up from the move like the Kryptonian does? Keep your knees looser."

"It's not like he's going to be fooled for long anyway," Clark pointed out as he and Bruce circled each other. 

"He usually feints to the left, not the right," Jean-Paul Valley called from his chair outside the ring. He shrugged as Clark turned to glare at him. "My father made me study Wayne's early tapes for hours."

"Well, maybe you should be pretending to be the Dark Knight, then," snapped Clark.

Jean-Paul shrugged again. "He didn't ask me." He grinned and dropped his voice into the eerie gravelly register of the Dark Knight's. "I can even do the voice, though," he growled.

Clark blinked at him--the voice was one of the things he simply couldn't get right about the Dark Knight.

 _"You--"_ Bruce lunged forward, dodged, got behind Clark and put him in a reverse chinlock, his arm around his neck, "--aren't focusing."

Clark sighed and leaned into the embrace that looked like a throttlehold for a moment, feeling Bruce's sweat cool on his skin, taking just a breath to relax against him. Then he twisted out of the hold and grabbed Bruce's neck. He heard Bruce chuckle as Clark hoisted him into a fireman's carry, held him there the _exact_ 2.5 seconds that the Dark Knight would, and then fall backwards, slamming Bruce to the mat in a perfectly-executed Dark Knight of the Soul.

There was a smattering of applause from other wrestlers working out around the ring. "That was quite good," said Jean-Paul.

"I've studied him for hours too," said Clark, at which point Bruce grabbed his foot and pulled him down to the mat, where they ended up tussling for a while. "Uncle, uncle!" yelled Clark when Bruce got him in a leglock, pounding the mat.

"I think you're ready," said Bruce.

* * *

It wasn't a match for the tag team championship--Captain Cold and Heatwave currently held that, and their particular brand of Odd Couple bickering was working so well Luthor had no inclination to dethrone them. Joker and Killer Croc had been put together recently as a tag team, but the brain/muscle dichotomy wasn't getting over with the audience as well as had been hoped. The fact that Joker--well, Napier, technically, but more and more he was going by "Joker" backstage as well as in the ring--had only the most barely-concealed contempt for Waylon Jones in reality meant that their working relationship was fragile at best.

"Try to keep up tonight, Croc," sneered Joker as they got ready to head out.

Jones rolled his eyes. "You're the one that botched that finish," he said. "Don't take it out on me."

Joker swelled with indignation. _"I_ botched the finish? If Heatwave had been where he was _supposed_ to be--"

To everyone's relief, his music--with its distinctive gleeful chuckle at the beginning--started up before he could work himself further into his tirade. At the sound, his fury vanished to be replaced by the Joker's rictus grin. Straightening his purple garb, he bolted out of the gorilla position and down the ramp, grinning wildly at the children on the sidelines as they shrank away from him.

Clark adjusted the cowl as Killer Croc took his turn on the ramp, feeling self-conscious. Beside him, Billionaire Brucie was bouncing on the balls of his feet, dressed to the nines in an impeccable suit. "Stop fidgeting," he murmured. He reached up and grabbed one of the ears of the cowl, pulling Clark's head closer to him. "You look great. We're going to be great."

Billionaire Brucie's music hit, and he bumped fists with Clark without looking, his face radiant as he heard his old familiar theme music. He walked out onto the ramp, and Clark could hear the welcoming boos as the audience reacted to seeing him for the first time in so long. He wiped his hands on his tights and twitched the cape to make sure it wasn't caught on anything.

"You'll be fine," said a low voice beside him, and Clark almost yelped before he realized it was Jean-Paul Valley. "You are able to channel his essence. Let the power of the bat flow through you."

"O--Okay," said Clark, somewhat unnerved. Valley's tendency to lapse into mystical language continued to rattle him, and he wasn't sure thinking about feeling Bruce's essence flowing through him was a good idea just before a match.

And then the opening chords of the Dark Knight theme's music rang out; Clark gathered his cape around him and swept out into the arena.

He made it halfway down the ramp before realizing that he had half-consciously been expecting someone to yell out "Imposter!" But the crowd was cheering, and in the ring Brucie was beaming at him, and Clark made it to the ring and vaulted into it as the Dark Knight.

The pre-match banter was all between Joker and Billionaire Brucie, as Killer Croc and the Dark Knight stood on the apron at the turnbuckles--Clark didn't feel confident speaking as the Dark Knight, and Croc's strengths did not lie in his mic work. Joker and Brucie sparred and smiled and preened and flounced, and Clark felt a baffled jealousy churn in him that Joker could trade barbs with Bruce, while the Kryptonian was trapped in silence. Finally, though, the bell rang, and Joker immediately threw Brucie into the turnbuckle with an Irish whip, running at him to dropkick his chest, laughing maniacally. Brucie ducked a left hook, then came up right into another that left him reeling.

"Thought you could fight me, did you?" cackled the Joker. "When will you peons ever learn?"

Brucie staggered and fell to his knees, clearly dazed. On the apron just outside the ring, Clark as the Dark Knight reached out in vain to him, trying to touch hands and make the tag so that he could get into the ring and take his place. But it was hopeless, the stunned Brucie couldn't make the tag. Chortling in glee, Joker wandered over to the corner where Killer Croc waited and tapped his hand. "Finish him, Crocky," he sneered. "I don't feel like breaking a sweat today."

Cracking his knuckles, Croc climbed into the ring and began to beat Brucie up.

After minutes of torturous punishment, Brucie finally managed to lunge to the corner and touch his hand to the Dark Knight's, at which point Clark vaulted over the ropes, fresh and uninjured, and began to pummel Croc as the crowd surged in excitement. 

The rhythm of a tag team match was different than a singles match, Clark thought as he and Croc traded blows and throws around the ring. The rising and falling of action was punctuated by the switching of partners, the dance even more intricate, the audience's reactions rising and falling with the fortunes of the people in the ring. On the apron, Brucie and Joker cheered on their tag team partner, exhorting or threatening the crowd respectively. 

"Rib breaker," Clark murmured to Waylon as they locked up in the middle of the ring. Waylon responded by grabbing his hand, throwing him against the ropes, catching him up on the rebound and bringing him down hard on his bent knee.

Usually the impact was absorbed by the "attacker's" arms, but this time Croc was just a tiny bit off, and the knee slammed into Clark's ribs. He felt the air leave his lungs in a painful _whoosh_ , and his flop to the mat was an unfeigned struggle for air.

Someone was leaning over him--not Croc, but the ref. "You okay?" asked the ref under his breath.

"Give me a sec," Clark managed to wheeze around his spasming lungs, and the ref moved away again, ostensibly to chide Croc for some trumped-up illegality, but in reality to relay the information that his "opponent" needed a couple of minutes to catch his breath. Waylon decided to take a few moments to taunt Brucie, standing helpless in the corner, which gave Clark time enough to run a quick self-diagnostic: no broken bones, no torn muscles, just the wind knocked out of him. As the crowd booed Killer Croc, the referee unobtrusively bent over Clark once more and Clark nodded that he was ready to go. 

Just a flash of improvisation that the audience would likely never notice, all five people around the ring working as a team to create the illusion of a pitched battle between two opposing sides. There was a strange beauty to it, Clark thought as he rose to loom up behind Croc, all cowled menace, and saw Bruce's eyes widen in appreciation of his Dark Knight impression.

From the far corner, Joker was screaming, trying to get the oblivious Croc's attention. The audience was shrieking in delight as the Dark Knight readied the Hammer of Justice, his K.O. punch, and for just an instant--as Croc turned around and his jaw dropped in dumbfounded amazement--Clark felt the power of the bat indeed, a dark and luminous energy.

Croc kicked out of the pin, the Joker cheated to get them the win, and the Dark Knight and Billionaire Brucie lost the match, but it didn't matter that much after that transcendent moment.

* * *

"How do you get this damn cowl off?" Clark complained, tugging at the latex. "Does it have to be so tight?"

"Can't risk having it come off in a match," said Bruce. "Let me help." 

"I'm not sure I could wrestle in that regularly," Clark said as Bruce came over and ran his hands lightly over the black latex.

"You won't have to. I figure one more match, maybe two, and that'll confuse enough people." Bruce let his fingers trail down Clark's covered face as if he were reading it by touch. "So strange to see it from the outside," he murmured.

His fingers reached the bare skin of Clark's upper lip, and the sudden contact of skin on skin after the duller sensation on the latex seemed to hit Clark like an electric jolt. He sucked in a breath. Bruce's eyes darkened as he smiled slightly and slid the tips of his fingers under the latex, probing and prying.

Clark cast a nervous look around the busy locker room, but no one seemed to think it amiss--totally natural that Bruce would be helping Clark get out of that unwieldy cowl, after all. Bruce was gazing at him as he pulled back the black latex and exposed more and more of Clark's skin, and Clark felt surreally exposed, laid bare.

"So," Bruce said conversationally, his voice pitched under the hubbub of the locker room, "Do I look so daunting in this? So predatory? So...commanding?"

Clark coughed uneasily and moved out of the way as Darkseid and Mongol wandered by with towels around their waists, heading for the showers. "You know you do," he muttered.

"But I like to hear you say it," said Bruce with a flash of a smile.

By the time Bruce had finished gently but inexorably tugging off the cowl, Clark was flustered in the extreme. "Thank you," he stammered, handing it to Bruce and snatching up a towel to hold in front of his skin-tight trunks.

"You going to take a shower before you head out?" Bruce asked.

Clark glared at him. "I think I'll shower in the hotel room," he said, sliding into his jeans as quickly and unobtrusively as possible.

"Sounds like a plan," said Bruce innocently, and Clark chucked the towel at him.

* * *

"No," Clark heard Bruce saying as he walked into the common room days later. "Absolutely not. I am vetoing that idea."

He was facing down two of the bookers: Clark recognized them as Paul and Greg. Flanking the bookers were three young women Clark didn't know: one with red hair pulled back in a ponytail, one with a blond bob, and one with a cascade of dark locks. All three looked annoyed, though in different ways: the blond had her arms crossed and was looking murderous, the dark-haired woman was rolling her eyes, and the redhead had a coolly calculating expression on her face. 

"See, Bruce, I agree with you," Greg was saying placatingly. "But Paul has other ideas."

"They are stupid ideas," Bruce snapped. "Look at her. Does she look young enough to be my daughter?" He gestured at the dark-haired woman, who blew her bangs out of her eyes with an exasperated huff of air. "I'll look like a geezer."

"We were thinking daughter from an alternate dimension," Paul said.

"No," said Bruce. "I agreed to have the DCW link two new wrestlers to the Dark Knight gimmick, but I did not agree to have one of them be my daughter."

"I don't want to be your daughter anyway!" the woman in question burst out. "Barbara's the one who wants to be tied to your angle. I've already _got_ my gimmick planned out, Greg helped me write it up and everything." She beamed at Greg, who ran a hand over his bald head and looked pleased.

"A Mafia princess, who's going to believe that?" scoffed Paul.

"For crying out loud, you're debating whether Karen is going to be the Kryptonian's alien cousin or an Atlantean princess," she yelled, gesturing at the blond woman at her side. "And you think the Mafia is too unrealistic?"

"Helena is right," said the redheaded woman. Her voice was crisp and precise. "The problem is you can't be bothered to come up with a consistent gimmick for most of the female wrestlers, because most of the writers don't care about their storylines. I'll bet you anything the DCW has spent more time debating how much of Helena's belly to show or how big Karen's ridiculous boob window should be than planning their gimmicks. I know you're trying," she added to Greg, who looked quietly upset, "But it's a systemic problem."

"You're Jim Gordon's daughter," Bruce said suddenly, looking at her.

"That's right," she said, lifting her chin just a bit defiantly. "Barbara Gordon. Pleased to meet you." She put out her hand for him to shake while Karen muttered something about rather liking her costume. "I've been a fan of yours for a while now, and when I saw there was an opportunity to develop a related character, I jumped at it. I don't want to be your valet or even your protegee, I want to be someone who was inspired by you to fight under the auspices of the bat."

"And she's really good," Karen put in, "So don't think you can patronize her."

"If you ever catch me doing that, please suplex me until my head rings," Bruce said solemnly.

"For the record, there is no way I'm putting a bat-insignia anywhere on my outfit," Helena said, glaring at Paul. "So you're just going to have to find another wrestler to connect to him."

"Mafia princess it is, then," said Paul. He looked innocent, but Clark suspected that there would be a storyline someday in which the rumors surfaced anyway.

"So...cousin?" Clark said to Karen. She grinned and shook his hand.

"Maybe. Personally, I don't care half as much as Barbara and Helena do about my backstory. I just like to get into the ring and beat people up." 

"Oh good grief, she's gone," said Helena. Clark looked over to see Barbara deep in conversation with Bruce about motivations. "Talking about her 'Bat-Girl'--" She made air quotes, "--ideas. C'mon, Karen, let's go hit a club somewhere." She grabbed Karen's arm and dragged her off, and Paul and Greg walked away bickering, leaving Clark alone.

A half hour later Bruce appeared at his elbow as he talked with Selina. "Sorry," he said, "But she had some interesting ideas."

"Those are the three that are going to be put against Ivy, Harley and me?" said Selina. She blew on her fingernails and buffed them on her shirt. "I doubt they'll be able to keep up."

"I wouldn't underestimate them," Bruce cautioned. "I've seen them all wrestle in the indies, they've got stamina and strength. Barbara especially--she had a back injury a while ago, people thought it would end her career, but she fought through it." He nodded. "I think they'll bring out the best in the Sirens." He looked at Clark. "And her Batgirl gimmick is half of the price I paid for our identity shenanigans, so you'd better make the most of your opportunity."

"Oh no, you paid the price of helping out a promising young wrestler by expanding your gimmick," said Clark in mock-sympathy. "The sacrifices you make for me."

Bruce smirked. "It's all because I love this sport so much and want what's best for it," he said.

"The sport, right," said Selina, and was out the door before either of them could respond.

* * *

"Don't I...know you?" Oliver Queen narrowed his eyes at the interviewer wearing a cheap, well-pressed suit and a blinding smile. "Weren't you…"

"Clark Kent, yes!"

"Weren't you wearing overalls the blast time I saw you?"

Kent beamed. "Well, after my vicious beating at the hands of the Dumas brothers apparently wrecked my coordination for life, I realized I was going to need a new career. So I decided to go to journalism school and become a reporter." He spread his hands wide and almost dropped the mic, bobbling it wildly for a few seconds as Queen looked on, bemused. "And here I am!"

"And here you are," said Queen.

"So tell me," said Kent earnestly, "How do you feel about your match against Merlyn tonight?"

Queen cut a good solid promo about his former mentor while Kent nodded, and when Merlyn (predictably) showed up to threaten Queen, Kent shrieked in terror, tripped over his feet trying to get away, and ended up sprawled on the floor, flailing wildly.

"Nice work," said Queen backstage later as Clark changed from his ill-fitting suit to the skintight Kryptonian outfit. "I'd forgotten how good your comedic timing is."

"I hadn't," said Bruce from behind him in full Dark Knight regalia, making him jump.

"Good grief, Wayne, don't sneak up on a guy like that," Queen griped.

Bruce watched him head for the showers, his face expressionless, and then turned to give Clark a wink from under the cowl.

* * *

"It's working," gloated Bruce, rubbing his hands together in glee as he trawled through an online message board. On the common room screen, John Stewart was defending the title against Copperhead, and Clark took a moment to appreciate a particularly complex move: Stewart could make even a mediocre wrestler look good.

"Have you baffled Mr. Sarcastic?" Clark asked, passing behind Bruce and tapping the back of his neck twice with his finger: their code for a kiss while in public.

Bruce made a disgusted noise. "Him? There is no baffling that kid. But he's given up arguing with the 'hopeless marks'--his term--who think Brucie and the Dark Knight are two different people, and has moved on to his preferred topic of analyzing Dick Grayson's career. He's managed to get footage of even the extremely obscure matches in Poland and is dissecting them to explain how Grayson's style is evolving. He's quite passionate on the topic," he added with a frown. "On the plus side, very few people have twigged to the fact that the Kryptonian and The Interviewer Formerly Known as Country Clark are one and the same," he went on.

"Really?"

"Are you surprised?" Bruce looked up at him. "You're surprised," he said, raising his eyebrows. "The difference between the two is quite striking, actually. You slump as Kent, you're ramrod-straight as the Kryptonian. You're all adorably schlubby as Kent, you're totally controlled and distant as the Kryptonian. It's not just the outfits and the contact lens, it's the way you hold yourself, the way you walk, everything. You're really good at it," he said.

"Oh," said Clark, feeling himself start to grin.

"You'd never be able to pull off the Dark Knight for more than a match here or there, though, so don't get too cocky," Bruce added. Then his eyes flicked to the doorway. "Boss incoming," he muttered, closing the browser with the gossip site.

Clark moved a few inches further away from Bruce--Bruce had an uncanny instinct for knowing with Luthor was going to show up. "He has very distinctive footsteps," he always said, but no one else could ever make them out.

Yet here he was, striding through the doors and surveying his crew with satisfaction. "Good news!" he called. "How does everyone feel about a little tropical island vacation?"

Murmurs of approval rippled through the locker room. "Bahamas?" asked Croc.

"Bermuda?" chimed in Mr. Miracle.

"Better." Luthor grinned and clapped his hands together. "I've just wrapped up negotiations for a tour of the paradise of Santa Prisca!"


	33. Fathers and Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce meet a new Robin at the beginning of their Santa Prisca trip--and then are reunited with an old one.

"Wayne has agreed with me that the Robin gimmick was working too well to give up just because Grayson decided to move on," Luthor said to the room full of wrestlers and their luggage. "So this Santa Prisca trip seemed like the perfect time to let him and all of you get used to a new Robin. Allow me to introduce to you Mr. Jason Todd."

The dark-haired young man at his side bobbed his head awkwardly, not meeting anyone's eyes.

"Todd's an up-and-comer in the mixed martial arts scene," Luthor went on. "He's got a gritty, street-savvy style that I think will work well with the Dark Knight." He clapped Jason on the back and exited, whistling to himself.

Clark watched as Jason went around the room and shook hands with everyone. Unlike Dick's natural cheeriness and relaxation, Jason had a closed, sullen look on his face, a reserve. Yet when he shook hands with Diana, he suddenly stammered, "I'm--I'm so thrilled to meet you--I saw some of your early matches in Athens on Youtube...that mixed match where you bodyslammed Ares from the turnbuckle was fu--I mean, freaking amazing!" and when she smiled and thanked him, his face lit up and Clark caught a glimpse of a shy young man who was perhaps too well-guarded for his own good. But by the time he came to Bruce, the shields were back in place.

"It's an honor to be working with you," Jason said, sticking out his hand, unsmiling.

Bruce took it. "Good to meet you again," he said.

Jason flinched backwards, his cheeks flaming red. "Oh God," he stammered. "I didn't--"

Bruce loomed just a bit. "--You didn't think I'd remember the punk who tried to steal my hubcaps?"

There was an awkward silence in which Jason looked like he was thinking about bolting for the door. The Bruce laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. 

"C'mon," he said. "No hard feelings. I mean, you stayed out of trouble after that, right? No more shoplifting, no more fights in school."

"Y--Yeah, I pretty much did," Jason said. "How did you--"

"--Found a local gym that trained in MMA, put all that street fighting skill to good use. And now you've got a developmental contract working in DCW!" Bruce gave Jason a rather narrow look. "You sure that's what you want, kid? Ditching the mixed martial art circuit, working for Luthor?"

Jason squared his jaw and met his eyes. "I want to work with you."

"Even if you have to be a replacement? A second Robin, rather than your own person?" Jason's eyes darkened and Bruce said, "I'm just telling it like it is. That's what they want from you. Not everyone would be willing to do it, and I'd understand why."

Jason nodded once, a sharp jerk of his head. "I want the chance."

Bruce nodded. "Then we'll work together. There's a gym in the hotel we're staying at in Santa Prisca. You'll be there at 6 o'clock sharp tomorrow morning to start training." He tipped his head in Clark's direction. "That's Clark. The Kryptonian. Friend of mine."

Jason gave him a somewhat shaky smile. "You look less daunting without the red eyes."

"He's the scary one," Clark said, shrugging toward Bruce.

"No argument from me," Jason breathed as he reached down to grab the backpack at his feet.

"Where's the rest of your luggage?" said Clark.

Jason shrugged. "I travel light." He tossed the backpack over his shoulder and headed for the door. "This is all I've got."

"Luthor said the two of you agreed to continue the Robin gimmick, but you only agreed because it was part of the deal to get me some mic time," Clark said under his breath to Bruce as they headed toward the bus that would take them to the airport. "Don't think I don't know that."

"He's a tough kid," said Bruce, neither affirming nor denying. "Self-made. He deserves a break."

"All that may be true, but I'm not sure this way is fair to him," Clark said. "Everyone in the business loves Dick. They watched him grow up. And now they bring in this kid to replace him--he's not from a pro wrestling promotion, he's an outsider from MMA, and he's--well, he's--"

"--He's got a chip on his shoulder, he's overly intense, and he doesn't have any social graces," Bruce finished for him. They watched as Jason climbed into the bus, smiling stiffly at the other wrestlers, putting his backpack in the seat next to him so no one would sit by him.

Clark heard Bruce sigh.

"I like him," he said, almost too low for Clark to hear.

* * *

"--And Bane rules over his Santa Prisca prison with an iron fist. Any who dare challenge his rule he beats to a bloody pulp in the Pit at the center of the prison." Harvey Dent nodded at the enthralled plane full of wrestlers. "He's calculating, brilliant, and utterly ruthless. Some matches he fights with the ring in flames, other times--when he wants a challenge--he fights with one hand tied behind his back. He never loses. He's been known to feed his victims to the sharks."

Jason laughed, just a little nervously. "But that's all--that's all fake, right?"

Clark winced as he saw some of the wrestlers' faces close up at the sound of the _real_ f-word: if there was one thing professional wrestlers hated, it was people from boxing or mixed martial arts, where the matches weren't pre-determined, calling what they did "fake."

"The better word is 'kayfabe,' Jason," said Bruce calmly, not looking up from his book. "And yes, Peña Duro--the prison that Bane 'rules'--is one of the more ingenious and detailed professional wrestling sets I've ever worked. But I've never known him to _actually_ throw someone to the sharks." He looked up with a slight smile. "The inferno matches, on the other hand, are quite real, and only end when one wrestler has been set on fire."

"Hardcore," murmured Barbara appreciatively.

"Bane is intense and driven," Bruce went on. "His father, King Snake, has trained him since childhood to be the pinnacle of human perfection. He speaks six languages fluently and can bench press seven hundred pounds. He also has an excellent ring sense and a grasp of the best gimmick. The story is that he was experimented on as a young man by the prison surgeons, and given a drug called Venom which makes him unstoppable."

"He sounds quite formidable," said Jean-Paul Valley. "I look forward to defeating him."

Bruce gave him a thin smile. "I can count the number of times he's lost on one hand, and he's certainly not going to lose to a wrestler from the mainland."

"It's already decided," said Lex Luthor without looking up from his laptop. "He said he'd wrestle none but the Dark Knight. He won't lose to him, either. And since you've mentioned it--he'd like it to be an inferno match, if you're game."

"I'm always game," said Bruce.

"That's why I haven't fired you," shot back Luthor.

"Hey, there it is!" said Batson, and the wrestlers peered out the plane windows at the tiny island below them, an emerald in a turquoise sea.

* * *

"...He wanted me to be 'Prince Snake,'" said the man who went by "Bane," lifting his beer. "But come now, that was clearly not going to work. My father was an intelligent man, but when it came to names, he met his match. Prince Snake? I don't think so."

"I admire how you've carved out your independence while remaining true to his vision," Jean-Paul said. Within moments they were deep in a conversation about demanding wrestling fathers; Clark caught a snippet of Jean-Paul explaining his father's "System," which sounded like some kind of grueling training regimen involving hard physical labor and extremely dubious psychological training.

Some of the other wrestlers were talking about hitting the beach in the morning before the first show. "Join us?" Selina said to Bruce, but Bruce shook his head. 

"Wrestling is the only kayfabe I find interesting," he said, and that was all he'd say on the matter. "Jason and I will be training," he added, and Jason gave an only slightly disappointed shrug and agreed.

"I'll be there too," Clark said.

Bruce didn't quite smile. "I know."

* * *

"Your first priority is to _protect_ your opponent, not hurt them," Bruce said as he came up from a roll. "Throw somebody like that in a match and you're going to make enemies fast. And they're _not_ your enemies," he added as Jason opened his mouth. "They're your co-workers. You're working together to create the illusion of combat. The best worker is one who hurts no one."

Jason looked like he wanted to argue, but closed his mouth, swallowed hard, and tried the move again. 

"Better," said Bruce after another bodyslam. 

"I don't see why I have to wear the Robin costume for practice," Jason said.

"You need to know how it moves with you," said Bruce. "You won't be wrestling in workout sweats, so we don't practice in them." He paused to let Jason suplex him twice more, then said, "Luthor's putting you into a match with Joker tonight."

Jason's grin transformed his closed-off face to brilliant. "Putting me up against the A-listers right away, huh?"

"Hm," said Bruce. He shot a look at Clark, who was working out on the butterfly machine. 

Clark shrugged slightly and raised an eyebrow: _He needs to know._

"Joker can be difficult to work with," Bruce said. "I suspect Luthor is matching you with him to test you."

"Oh," said Jason, his smile disappearing. He thought about it for a while, leaning against the ropes of the practice ring. "What do I do?"

Bruce didn't say anything, but Clark could tell from the way his shoulders relaxed slightly that he was pleased. "You're going to have to let him call all the shots in the ring. He'll give you cues to tell you which move is up next--you don't have to say anything, just listen for his audibles and do what he says. To prepare, let's go through a practice match. I'll be Joker and we'll work on some of his standard moves so you're ready for them."

"You're the boss," said Jason, the cocky grin back in place. "Let's get started."

Clark finished his reps and moved around the ring as they practiced, watching them. Jason was good, there was no doubt about it. He had a raw strength that Dick didn't have, a vigor to his motions that made up for his relative lack of grace. He didn't look as good pulling off Robin's signature moves from the top rope, because his body wasn't as flexible and agile, but his grappling and mat skills were maybe even better than Dick's.

As Bruce talked Jason through a move from the turnbuckle, ignoring his grumbles about "all this crazy jumping around," the door to the gym opened and Clark heard footsteps echoing into the room. "Glad to see I'm not the only early bird on Santa Prisca," said a startlingly familiar voice. "I know the beaches are-- _Bruce_?"

Clark turned to see Dick Grayson standing next to the practice ring.

Jason, teetering on the turnbuckle in his Robin suit, slipped and came crashing down. "Grayson!" he said, leaning across the ropes. "Oh hey, it's great to meet you, I'm Jason Todd, I'm the next Robin."

Dick looked at his outstretched hand, then at Bruce, then back at Jason. He shook Jason's hand. "The next Robin," he said.

"Not that anyone could take your place, but Mr. Luthor and Mr. Wayne decided it would be a shame to let the gimmick die."

"First I heard of it," said Dick, and Jason's smile went wary and unsure.

"Aren't you supposed to be in Puerto Rico?" said Clark into the silence.

"Yeah, but Zombie got injured and Bane negotiated to have me come out to Santa Prisca a couple of weeks early. So here I am," said Dick.

"Dick," said Bruce. Dick crossed his arms and looked at him. "Dick. What-- _what is that outfit?"_

For the first time since Dick's entrance, Clark focused on what he was wearing: the pop-up sky blue collar, the plunging neckline, the golden feathery accents. "It's my new Nightwing costume," Dick said, turning around in a circle. "I'm thinking about growing my hair out, too. What do you think?"

"The dark blue is a good color on you," Clark said truthfully.

Dick looked from Bruce's expressionless face to Jason's, who was clearly stifling laughter, and his own went stony. "That's fine, Bruce," he said. "I don't need your approval anymore anyway. I think it's clear we've both moved on." He nodded to Jason, who looked stricken. "I guess I'll just go for a run," he said, and turned and left.

Bruce stared after him, unspeaking. 

_"Bruce,_ " hissed Clark.

"You'll do great whatever you wear in the ring!" Bruce called out abruptly, but the door slammed halfway through his words and Clark wasn't sure Dick had heard them.

* * *

"Bruce."

"I hope he didn't actually go for a run in that thing," Bruce said, slurping nervously at a cup of coffee in the hotel cafe--his third.

"Bruce."

"He looks like an escapee from Mardi Gras."

"Bruce."

"Seriously, didn't I teach him _anything_ about minimalism and drama?"

 _"Bruce._ "

Bruce looked up from the coffee. "What?"

Clark gave him a level look. "You're going to have to apologize to him."

"I didn't say anything to his face," Bruce said. "I thought a lot of things but I'm pretty sure I didn't say anything. Not even that he looked like a peacock. I didn't actually say that, did I? I just thought it, right?"

Clark reached out and took the cup of coffee away from him. A muscle was twitching in the corner of his eye. "Not about the costume. You need to apologize about Jason."

"He knows the DCW has a trademark on the gimmick," said Bruce. "He decided he wanted to give it up. I argued against filling the spot--I told Luthor it was too soon, give it more time. But it's Luthor's to hand on if he wants to. Dick knew that."

"All true," said Clark.

"Thank you."

"But you still need to apologize."

"Give me back my coffee." Bruce made a futile grab for it.

"I'm cutting you off," Clark said. "I've never seen you so jittery."

"I'm not good at this," Bruce muttered. 

"Apologizing?"

"That. Talking about...about things like this. I don't like it."

"I know," said Clark. "But you have to do it."

"I know," said Bruce, hunching down in his seat and looking wretched. "I will. I swear."

* * *

Bruce was a man of his word, and he found Dick and spoke to him before the show that evening. Clark wasn't privy to the conversation, but Bruce knocked on his hotel room some time later. Clark shooed away an inquisitive gecko--better geckos than cockroaches any day--and opened the door.

"Got any ice?" Bruce said, peering at him from one eye, the other covered with a washcloth.

"Hold on," said Clark. He grabbed an ice pack and put it into another washcloth. "How'd it go?"

"Remember how I gave him that shiner when he quit being Robin?"

"Mm-hm."

"Well, we're even now." Bruce eased the washcloth off and took the ice pack from Clark.

"So it went about as well as could be expected."

Bruce's smile was wan but sincere. "It'll be okay. He understands. He even likes Jason--he's seen some of his matches in the MMA circuit. But it's hard for him."

"It's always hard between fathers and sons," said Clark.

"He's got a father," said Bruce.

"He does," said Clark. "But still."

Bruce considered it for a moment, looking out the window at the sun-spangled water. "But still," he agreed.


	34. Inferno Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A show in Santa Prisca: Jason's first match against the Joker, Dick's debut as Nightwing, and an inferno match between Bane and the Dark Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Rdfox for some great suggestions about Jason and Joker's match!

_I honestly can't describe what goes on in my head when I'm out there. People who don't wrestle can't possibly understand it. When I'm in the ring, I don't feel any pain. I'm in another world out there. . . . It's almost as if I'm two different people--Superman and Clark Kent. --Eddie Guerrero_

"Remember: follow his lead. It'll be a short match, you're not supposed to be a challenge to him yet. Joker's brilliant, so trust his instincts and you won't go wrong."

Jason nodded, shifting from foot to foot like a boxer before a match. Robin's music hit, and Bruce clapped him on the back and sent him out.

The low rumble of the crowd that greeted him was slightly unnerving. The Peña Duro arena was a circular series of balconies, set close to the ring to mimic a prison, and the crowd noise was an immediate and living thing in such an inclosed space.

"And opposing him," announced Bane with a sweep of his hand--he always played ring announcer for his own shows, a merciless god of combat, "The Harlequin of Hate, the Mountebank of Menace, the Dandy of Death--" With each sobriquet the crowd noise leapt in volume; apparently the Joker was quite popular among the "inmates of Peña Duro. "--The Clown Prince of Crime himself, the Joker!"

Joker went out, waving and acknowledging the crowd's cheers.

"Tough crowd," murmured Clark to Bruce. "Do they always cheer the heels?"

"Santa Prisca's the smarkiest place I've ever wrestled," said Bruce as the cheers shifted to deafening boos when Robin got the first blow in on the Joker. "I warned Jason that this would probably happen."

Jason didn't seem to care that the audience was rooting for Joker. He was sweating in the tropical heat, but wearing a fierce grin that nearly matched Joker's fixed and manic glee. And not just their smiles were matched, Clark realized as they moved around the ring: Jason's sinewy grappling style highlighted Napier's flexibility and litheness.

The match was going well and reaching the end--it was just a warm-up for the big matches, anyway, when it happened: in the middle of a submission hold Joker twisted _just so_ and Clark saw Jason's face go still as it does when real pain happens. 

"Son of a--" Bruce bit the word off into an angry growl. "Dislocated shoulder," he muttered, watching Jason.

"Tap out," yelled the Joker, shrill enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd. "That'd be funny, don't you think?"

Robin bit his lip hard, then threw off the sinewy weight of the Thin White Duke of Death, rolling to his feet, his arm dangling awkwardly. He bared his teeth at the Joker, then slingshotted himself off the ropes, hurling himself at him. Joker was ready with his finishing move, the Punchline--he grabbed Jason's head and used his own momentum to slam him into the ring, where he lay still.

Bruce released a long breath as Joker wiped an imaginary tear from his eye and removed the flower from his boutonniere, casting it out into the audience with a graceful bow. "Time to go out and pick up the pieces," he muttered.

With a swirl of cape, he rushed out toward the ring, stopping only to trade bitter glares with the Joker. He knelt at Robin's side, helping him to his feet. Robin shook off his hands, radiating pain and pride in every line of his body, then limped away on his own.

From the middle of the ring, the Dark Knight watched him go, then whirled to address Bane, watching as always from his box seat in the corner. "Bane!" he cried. "What coward stays above the fray, refusing to risk his skin in the ring?" 

The crowd muttering coalesced, ugly and rough, but Bane held up a hand and it died back down. "Does the Dark Knight wish to face me?" he called down.

"Would you dare?"

Now Bane threw back his head and laughed at the contempt in the Dark Knight's voice. "You challenge me? You may as well challenge the tide, or throw taunts at the avalanche. Both shall sweep you away without even trying, and as for me--" He gestured, and flames burst from the turnbuckles in fiery columns at his command, bathing the Pit in garish light, " _\--I shall break you!"_

* * *

They had Jason's shoulder bandaged and in a sling by the time Bruce made it back to the common room. Bruce stopped to talk to him briefly, then swung on the Joker, who was sitting with his feet propped up on a table.

"You've got a lot of nerve," he gritted. "His first match, and you deliberately dislocate his shoulder." He towered over the grinning Joker. "I ought to--"

"Oh come on, Bats," chortled the Joker. "Can I call you Bats? I think we're close enough for that by now--anyway, you heard the kid on the plane! He said we were fake! I couldn't let that stand. And I gotta say, I'm impressed! He coulda just tapped out when I pulled his wing, but he got up and let me deliver the Punchline like a trooper." He stood up and clapped Jason on his good shoulder. "Are we even, kid?"

Jason grinned at him. "I thought it was pretty funny, actually."

Joker threw back his head and crowed with laughter. "See? No hard feelings," he said to Bruce. "He's a good worker. I foresee some hilarious storylines together."

"You do know his definition of 'hilarious' is pretty loose?" Bruce said as he and Clark sat down next to Jason.

"Nah, it's good," said Jason. "He's brutal. I can appreciate that. I think we can do some angles that'll really set me apart from Dick." He grinned: "You weren't kidding about the crowd. What a bunch of hardcore maniacs."

 _"Mi public,"_ sighed the Joker. "If only the unwashed masses on the mainland had half of their taste. I'd move down here permanently, but frankly the DCW needs me too much. The sacrifices I make."

"You seemed to handle getting booed pretty well," Bruce said to Jason, ignoring Joker's how-I-suffer-for-my-art monologue. 

"Hey, I don't mind getting booed," Jason said. "It's if people _yawn_ that I've failed." He nodded at Clark. "At least you'll finally have a chance to get cheered for a change."

Was it so obvious he hated being a heel that even the new kid could tell? "No such luck, actually," Clark said. "I'm fighting one of Bane's right-hand men, so the crowd will be behind him. But I'm fine with being a heel, really."

"Sure," said Jason. "Sure you are." he seemed, belatedly, to realize that this could be taken as rude, and hastened to add, "I mean, you're _good_ at it, no doubt about that." He cleared his throat, appeared to decide that discretion was the better part of valor, and went back to arguing with Joker.

Clark's match against Trogg went off without a hitch--Trogg was a burly wrestler with a slow but inexorable style, so not a lot was required of the Kryptonian but to look like was exerting himself in fighting him. The crowd was behind Trogg all the way, and when he finally managed to choke the Kryptonian into submission, throttling him with a camel clutch until the Kryptonian lost consciousness entirely, Brainiac shrieking impotently outside the ring, the crowd ate it up.

"So perish all who oppose my might, and the power of my right-hand man," boomed Bane as the Kryptonian's limp body was dragged out by a triumphant Trogg and two helpers.

Backstage, Clark scrambled out of the Kryptonian bodysuit and into his reporter seersucker suit as quickly as he could. "Wish they wouldn't put the two gimmicks back to back," he panted to Bruce as he re-arranged his hair and pulled out the red contacts. "I think Luthor just likes to make me suffer."

"Possible," Bruce agreed blandly. "Now get out back there so you can get bodyslammed by a girl."

"You mean a _woman wrestler,_ and Pamela can probably press more weight than you can, as well you know. As an attempt at humiliation, you're going to have to do better than that."

Bruce tangled one black-gloved hand in his hair and leaned close to his ear. "I'm saving all the best material for later," he growled, very low and very dark. "There," he added cheerfully, releasing Clark. "Now you look ready for an interview with Poison Ivy: rumpled and flushed."

Clark took a moment to adjust his trousers, rather glad for a change that they were baggy , and shot a glare at Bruce, who looked entirely unrepentant.

Then Clark Kent, intrepid reporter, headed to the interview area for his spot with the Gotham Sirens.

* * *

"So, you don't feel...uncomfortable wrestling in front of a lot of prisoners?" Clark asked Ivy, Harley, and Catwoman.

"Men are all brutes," Ivy sneered as Catwoman looked bored and Harley got distracted in the background by a large moth banging around the light bulb. "Slaves to their natures. They are beneath our notice. We are here to focus on the real threat: those self-righteous killjoys aligned with Batgirl."

Catwoman had gone back to being a brunette--"For symmetry," she had explained to Clark. "They've got a blond, a brunette and a redhead, so we need one of each too." Now she ran one hand lazily through her black curls and stretched luxuriously. "We're done pussyfooting around with them," she snarled. "Tonight we're coming at them with claws bared."

"I brought licorice!" Harley chirped out of nowhere, popping up in between her friends with a bag of black licorice whips. "Want some, girls?"

Ivy and Catwoman took a whip: Catwoman to snap playfully at Harley, Ivy to suck on while staring directly at Clark. "What are you staring at?" she said as Clark tugged on his collar, looking flustered.

"N-nothing," stammered Clark, blushing furiously.

Ivy looked at him without expression a while longer, then grabbed him without warning and tossed him in a bodyslam. "Gross," she said, wiping her hands off on her bodysuit as if she'd been forced to handle toxic waste. "Come on, girls, let's find some worthy opponents."

The camera zoomed in on Clark's dazed face, glasses askew, as the Sirens sauntered toward the ring. 

One of his better interviews, he thought. He was getting the hang of timing and the meek mannerisms--to be honest, they came more naturally than the strut and swagger of the Kryptonian. And it was always fun to use your skills to make other wrestlers seem tougher and stronger.

The match itself went great: Clark had been concerned about the audience--apparently female wrestlers were almost unheard-of in Santa Prisca--but aside from a few appreciative wolf whistles they cheered for the Sirens like they had all the other heels, booing the faces so vigorously that Power Girl almost got into a scrap with an audience member and had to be pulled away by Huntress.

The "Three on Three" match was perfectly made for these two teams. They tagged in and out at a dizzying pace, changing strategies depending on who they were up against, never letting anything get boring. Batgirl caught Harley with her Daredoll Drop and for a moment it looked like they were going to make short work of the Sirens, but then Catwoman distracted the ref and Ivy blew spores into Batgirl's face, causing her to cough so badly Harley had a chance to recover, and the match went on. At one point Harley pulled her trademark comically large sledgehammer out from under the ring and the audience went nuts, but she got so busy posing and preening with it that Power Girl was able to ready her Power Punch and level her. 

_"Really_ rough crowd," Huntress said as she squeezed liquid out of her hair backstage after their hasty retreat. "Yuck." She sniffed her black tresses with her nose wrinkled. "I guess I'm relieved it's just beer they were throwing at us."

"I thought they were _awesome_!" Harley squealed, throwing her hands in the air and jumping around.

"You would," Huntress grumbled.

Clark looked away from the friendly argument to the corner where Dick and Bruce were in animated conversation. Bruce had the cowl on, and Dick was wearing the costume with the popped collar and golden accents, gesturing as he explained something. They were both smiling--Dick's his open, wide smile, and Bruce's the small pleased smile he had when he was enjoying himself and didn't quite realize it.

Dick spotted him looking and waved him over. "Wait until you see the match Bird and I have planned," he said. "Bane's got me booked to win, even." He grimaced. "Usually Bane wouldn't book one of his lieutenants to lose against a mainlander, but apparently Bird messed up a catch a little while ago and he's been in the doghouse ever since." A sly grin. "Or should I say the _bird_ house?"

"I don't think you should," said Bruce solemnly, and Dick threw back his head and laughed.

"Anyway," he said more seriously, "it's my first match in this costume, my first match really as Nightwing. I've got some new moves ready for it. Promise me you'll watch it?"

"I wouldn't miss this one for the world," said Bruce, just as if he didn't find video of every single one of Dick's matches and watch them over and over, explaining to a patient Clark what Dick had improved on since the last one..

"Fantastic!" Dick leaped to his feet, did a quick handspring off a chair, and headed for the entrance to the arena.

"He'll be coming back to the DCW soon," Lex Luthor observed, strolling over to where Clark and Bruce were watching the monitor as Bane exhorted the crowd. "And not just him. He's tipped me off to a lot of fresh new talent he's been working with, and I'm thinking about expanding the sidekick gimmick. Adds a lot of inter-generational angst, taps into those visceral anxieties about parents and children, you know?"

"Dick's not a sidekick anymore," Bruce said as Bane introduced his henchman, Bird, who entered with his trademark falcon on his wrist before sending it soaring into the rafters.

"Certainly not, we replaced him," Lex said. "But how about Kid Flash--Wonder Girl--Aqualad--Speedy. A special division for young wrestlers with talent, fast moves, a daredevil style. I'm thinking of calling it the Titan division."

Clark frowned. "The other three are obvious, but who would Speedy be paired up with?"

"Green Arrow," Bruce said.

Lex looked slightly surprised. "How did you know?"

"Because you've given 'sidekicks' to most of the wrestlers you like least, and Green Arrow is near the top of that list."

Lex looked torn between annoyance and admiration. "Of course, I made sure you got the first one."

"Of course." Bruce held up his hand, cutting off further conversation, as Bane started to speak:

"And facing him, hailing from the soft and hedonistic city on the mainland, Gotham, is the masked vigilante known as Nightwing!"

The crowd muttered angrily as Nightwing came down the ramp. Halfway down, he did a sudden rolling somersault, coming up running until he leaped into the ring.

"This match," intoned Bane, "Is a Falls Count Anywhere Match! The ring is only the beginning of the torment for Nightwing, for Bird shall pursue him inexorably wherever he may flee. No place is safe for the Gotham whelp!"

"Whelp," murmured Bruce. "Nice word. Resonant."

"Defeat him, Bird! Or suffer my displeasure!" Bane gestured for the bell to be rung, and the match was underway.

It started in the ring, and it was quickly clear the bird theme was an accurate one: both were whipcord-fast, lithe and agile wrestlers, skilled at pulling off moves from the ropes and the turnbuckles. Soon enough, Bird decided that he would have more of an advantage fighting among the crowd, and he dodged out of the ring with Nightwing in hot pursuit. 

They fought up the steps, the crowd surging around them. Bird threw Nightwing down the stairs and he tumbled in a barely-controlled fall, ending in a heap near the bottom. The seething crowd closed around him for a moment, and Clark felt Bruce's shoulders tense. But then he re-emerged, sprinting up the steps in pursuit of the fleeting Bird.

Soon they were up in the first balcony, trading punches and throws with abandon. Nightwing jumped up onto the rail of the balcony, balanced precariously, running along it like a tightrope with nothing but a sheer drop on one side. Bird jumped up to intercept him and they weaved and bobbed, and then Bird landed a solid punch to his jaw.

Nightwing wobbled, wavered, and then plunged backwards off the balcony into thin air.

Clark heard the crowd gasp, felt Bruce jump to his feet as Nightwing fell, his body tracing a line of pure grace through the air as he made a full rotation, dark hair flowing. He landed on his back next to the ring on the padded floor, and for a moment there was nothing but silence as he lay still. Then the crowd burst into cheers--partly for Bird's apparent victory, and partly for the skill of the fall. The ref leaned over him briefly, then stepped back, shaking his head, and Clark felt Bruce take a harsh breath. The fall had gone off as planned and Dick was uninjured, otherwise the ref would be calling for medical attention.

"Impressive," Luthor said. Clark looked over to see his eyes bright as he looked at Dick lying on the floor. "He told me he was going to show me something special tonight. He was right."

Bird raced down the stairs to reach his fallen opponent and pin him. But as the referee got to the two-count and the crowd noise peaked, Nightwing kicked out and staggered to his feet, weaving but indomitable. The crowd shrieked, no longer seeming to care who was the face and who was the heel, as he pursued the panicked Bird until at last Nightwing leaped from a table to knock Bird out and pin him for the three-count. An infuriated Bane castigated the fallen Bird as Nightwing limped back up the ramp to his music and the delirious rage of the crowd.

"Hard match to follow," said Bruce. "Guess Bane and I will have our work cut out for us."

"Be careful," said Clark. "Fire doesn't care about kayfabe."

"Neither does gravity, and we've always beaten that." Bruce held out his fist for Clark to bump and was gone.

* * *

"We've done as you demanded, Bane!" growled the Dark Knight. "We fought your lackeys, and now it's time for me to take you down."

"Oh," purred Bane as he strode to the ring, "You are still angry that I pitched your fledgling against the Joker, are you? He shall heal and learn from the experience. You, on the other hand--"

He gestured, and on cue the turnbuckles burst into flame once more. He entered the ring moments before the flames spread to enclose the whole ring. The two of them stood surrounded by flame, and the bell rang out over the crackling of fire.

Clark watched as the two circled each other. It would get increasingly difficult to breathe as the flames pulled oxygen from the center of the ring, as the temperature rose. Bruce was wearing his full cape for the match, and even knowing it had all been treated with fire retardant didn't make Clark feel much better. With each blow and bodyslam the flames leaped in response, an angry roar.

The match was slow-paced, deliberate: it fit their styles, but also neither wrestler wanted to risk getting too close to the flames before it was time for the finale. Clark could see sweat trickling from beneath Bruce's cowl, sheening his chest. A throw went just a fraction off and Bruce's cloak came terrifyingly close to the fire: Clark heard Jason and Dick simultaneously make small sounds of worry, and for a moment the two of them shared a sudden, entirely understanding look.

It was time for the backbreaker, Bane's finishing move and the segue into the sequence in which the Dark Knight would be set on fire. After a flurry of steady offense by the Dark Knight, Bane grabbed the caped wrestler, lifting him up. For a long moment he held him there, a show of brute strength. And then with a roar of fury he brought the Dark Knight down across his knee.

It was beautifully executed, so much so that Clark found his heart in his throat: there were no referees in the flame-encircled ring to check on him and give medical assistance if necessary, what if, what if…

But Bane bent over the Dark Knight, and as he did, his opponent grabbed him and dragged him down. Clark felt a sigh of relief shake his body: the match would have ended if Bruce were truly hurt. Nothing left now but the flames-- _oh, that's all_ , he thought grimly to himself.

Bane seized the Dark Knight and forced him back against the flaming barrier, inch by agonizing inch. It had to be searingly hot, and Clark winced in sympathetic pain as the treated cloak finally ignited. Bane hurled the burning Dark Knight from the ring, and the Dark Knight staggered up the ramp through the howls of the crowd, flames creeping up his cape, defeated. 

Bane stood alone and victorious in the ring, but Clark didn't see his triumphant conclusion, because he was rushing to where Bruce was being hosed off with fire extinguishers and smothered in blankets. He heard someone yelling "Are you okay?" in a hoarse voice, and realized abruptly it was him.

Bruce peeked out from the blankets swaddling him, his hair and eyelashes touched with foam. "Worried about me?"

Clark's knees went oddly wobbly, and he sat down on the floor next to Bruce. Some of the other wrestlers gave him strange looks; he ignored them. "Damn it," he muttered. "That backbreaker move looks--"

"--Amazing, I know," said Bruce. "It's an honor to receive it." He hissed as the medical staff gingerly removed his singed cape. "I'm going through a lot of these, aren't I?"

"Are you burned?"

"That's what I get for playing with fire," Bruce said cheerfully.

"You've got a few first-degree burn patches," Dr. Cross said in his distinctive Norwegian accent. "Nothing too serious."

"Lucky me," said Bruce.

"Excellent match!" Clark looked up to see Bane towering over them as they sat on the ground; reflexively he jumped to his feet as if to defend Bruce from him, then stopped, feeling foolish.

Bane helped Bruce to his feet. "It was a pleasure to lose to you," Bruce said. "You'll have to take your turn sometime."

Bane threw his head back in dark laughter. "Indeed, brother," he said. "One day I shall come to Gotham. I shall face you down on your home turf. And there--" 

He pointed at Bruce and Clark felt a superstitious shiver go down his spine.

"-- _I shall break you!"_ thundered Bane good-naturedly, and everyone but Clark laughed.

* * *

"No more inferno matches," Clark said, smoothing aloe onto Bruce's bare back.

Bruce was lying on his stomach, gazing out at the ocean through the billowing curtains, thick with salty air. He turned his head to grin at Clark. "You're cute when you're over-protective," he said.

"I just...didn't like seeing you on fire."

"I've been on fire since we first wrestled together," Bruce murmured, closing his eyes. For a long moment they sat there in silence, Clark's hands moving on Bruce's skin, the sea air blowing over them. "You're not even sweating," Bruce complained in a lighter tone.

"It's not that hot."

"Clark, it's sweltering." Bruce cast him an annoyed and affectionate look; Clark's resilience in hot weather was infamous. "You're like some kind of Superman."

Clark laughed. "Superman?"

"Well, I prefer that translation of Übermensch. Less daunting." He laughed low in his throat and recited: _"The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of what account now are the gods to me!"_

"Are you quoting Nietzsche to me? Is this your idea of pillow talk?"

"It would be a good wrestling name," said Bruce dreamily. _"Ye wise and knowing ones, ye would flee from the solar-glow of the wisdom in which the Superman joyfully batheth his nakedness!"_ He smiled at Clark, slow and beautiful. "Joyfully bathe thy nakedness in the solar-glow, my Superman!"

Clark did not need a second invitation.


	35. Action Figures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick Grayson and the Titans start to create an entirely different style of high-flying wrestling. Billionaire Brucie gets interviewed by former-Country Clark Kent, and Clark and Bruce go shopping at Target to stock the Metropolis apartment.

_ With only a couple of brush strokes to the face, we could step out of our normal lives and into the boots of Road Warrior Animal and Road Warrior Hawk. As a kid, I’d always wondered what it would be like to have a secret identity and superpowers like the Hulk and Superman. Now I knew. --Joe Laurinitis _

"I'm telling you, Mr. Luthor, the crowds will love it!"

Luthor stopped to look at Dick Grayson. "It sounds risky. Dangerous. And dangerous means dull. Max Lord liked to do scaffold matches, and they were always boring because the wrestlers were too cautious."

"Scaffolds are too high and too static. Ladders are the key: they're mobile, they can be used as weapons or to climb, they move around, keep things interesting. We did matches like this all the time in Germany, and no one got hurt. We're good at it, we all are. Give us a chance."

Dick's big blue eyes would have put a puppy dog's to shame as he gazed imploringly at Lex Luthor. Lex heaved a sigh of exasperation and looked down at his phone, and as he did Dick shot Clark a mischievous wink. But by the time Luthor looked up again his expression was earnestly pleading once more.

"Let's say I do let you have this match," said Luthor. "Who's best to work with?"

"Roy Harper," said Dick without hesitation. 

"Face versus face?" Luthor frowned.

Dick rolled his eyes. "I already talked to Marv about it, he says we can use that drug-addiction angle from a while ago. Have him be hallucinating and try to beat me up with a dead cat or something." Luthor raised an eyebrow. "A _stuffed_ cat, obviously. Hey, it's no crazier than some of the stuff you've got going on right now. I mean, what, Donna is a time-travelling teen Wonder Woman? That's pretty out there."

"We'll get Troy's origins figured out soon," Luthor snapped. He made a note on his phone, Clark suspected just to keep Dick waiting for a little bit. "I'll give you one match with Harper in three weeks," he said. "If the audience pops for it, I'll consider giving you and the Titans more like it. If it's boring…" He made a cutting motion across his throat with one finger. "And I'll be hard to impress."

"Aren't you always?" sighed Dick at Luthor's retreating back.

"If you convinced him to let you do a ladder match, I'm impressed already," said Clark. "Bruce showed me some of your ladder matches in Germany against Brother Blood, they're exciting stuff."

"Bro's one of the best," Dick said happily. "But I want my first one in the DCW to be with Roy. He's amazing, totally fearless."

"What will you be using for the prize? I assume the Titan Division belt is out of the question since Wally's holding it right now." Ladder matches were usually fought with some object suspended above the ring; the first wrestler to use the ladder and grab the object won the match.

Dick stopped and frowned. "Good question. It's got to be something important, something we can get really desperate about…" His expression cleared like a bolt of lightning. "Oh yeah," he said, and started laughing. "Oh, Roy will like this one. And then--oh!" He danced from foot to foot with delight. "Oh, this will be great." He whirled and headed toward the offices, calling back over his shoulder, "I gotta talk to Marv! This is going to be _fantastic._ "

* * *

Standing in the middle of the ring, Nightwing held out a hand to Speedy, who knocked it away in a fury. _"How could you,_ Dick?" The audience murmured at the use of his real name. "How could you do this to me? Your best friend!"

Nightwing's jaw was set and resolute. "I'm doing this _because_ I'm your friend. And you need help. You need an intervention."

"You'd take my daughter away from me?" Speedy's voice was anguished; the cameras zoomed in on the face of Roy's toddler daughter, Lian, in the arms of Starfire at ringside. She was sucking her thumb and watching her father's theatrics with a puzzled look on her face. "My precious baby, the thing I love most in the world?"

"Show me. Go to rehab. Get help. Show Lian you’re committed to getting clean, to being a good father to her. If you don’t--I’ll do what I have to do, for Lian’s sake." 

Enraged beyond bearing, Speedy flung himself at Nightwing. But in the middle of a flurry of blows, Lex Luthor's theme music struck up, and the two former-friends stopped to glare at the man in a neon purple suit standing at the top of the ramp, holding a briefcase.

"Boys, boys, boys," purred Luthor. "Your custodial squabbles are probably fascinating to you, but the good folk here didn't pay to watch people bicker, they paid to watch people wrestle!" As the crowd roared its approval, he snapped his fingers and Otis hurried down the ramp, burdened with the weight of a tall ladder. "So I say let's settle this in a reasonable, fair way: I have here the paperwork for the custody of one…" He pulled a paper out of the briefcase and peered at it. "...Lian Harper." He strolled down the ramp as Otis set up the ladder, nearly getting caught in it more than once. "Mr. Harper has--perhaps unwisely at some point in the past--signed custody away to whoever signs their name on the dotted line. So I propose that whoever reaches the paperwork first gets custody of the adorable little tyke." He stopped to pinch Lian's cheek; she stared at him wide-eyed.

"That's crazy!" sputtered Nightwing in tandem with Speedy.

Luthor shrugged and handed the briefcase to Otis, who scrambled up the ladder to attach it to a hook hanging above the ring. "I suggest you get ready to fight," he said, and gestured for the bell to be rung.

The bell rang out; Nightwing was still in the middle of objecting when a panicked Speedy lunged forward and hit him with a shoulder to the stomach, knocking him flat on his back. Speedy scrambled for the ladder, but Nightwing grabbed his foot, pulling him away. They reeled around the ring, eventually slamming into the ladder and knocking it over. Speedy grabbed it and set it up in the corner, hurling Nightwing against it and running at him in order to crush him between the turnbuckle and the ladder. But Nightwing leapfrogged out of the way and Speedy crashed into the ladder with an impressive _clang_.

The battle raged on, with each wrestler struggling to set up and climb the ladder, and the other wrestler desperately knocking them off. Speedy made it halfway up once before Nightwing grabbed the ladder and shook it, at which point he plummeted off the the ladder and onto Nightwing: the crowd gasped and shrieked, and beside Clark Bruce whistled appreciatively.

"They're doing it," he said as the two Titans locked up for another exchange of suplexes and throws, getting ready for the final big set piece. "The audience is really into it."

Nightwing was making his way up the ladder again; with Speedy dazed in a corner of the ring, it seemed like he might actually make it this time. He reached the top and fumbled for the precious briefcase, but his frantic efforts sent it swinging wildly out of his reach. Meanwhile, Speedy regained his senses enough to realize what was going on and scrambled to the top of a turnbuckle.

"Here we go," said Bruce, and Clark realized he was clutching Clark's arm without seeming to notice it, his eyes glued on the screen.

Speedy made it to the top of his turnbuckle just as Nightwing finally got a good grip on the briefcase. _"No!"_ he screamed, and launched himself out at the ladder, slamming into it and knocking it over, leaving Nightwing hanging on to the briefcase, swinging in dizzy circles above the ring. After a breathless moment, he had to let go of the briefcase, crashing down onto Speedy below him.

Both of them sprawled on the mat, clearly too exhausted to even rise, their chests heaving with ragged breaths as the precious custody papers swung high above them. The crowd screamed itself hoarse, everyone rooting for their favorite to stand up, giddy second-hand adrenaline energizing the arena.

And into the chaos ran a woman wearing a green martial arts _gi_ with gold trim, her long dark hair tied back with a green headband. Boos rang out around Cheshire, Speedy's former lover and mother of his child, as she righted the ladder and scrambled up it. Speedy and Nightwing struggled to get to the ladder in time, but they were too late: Cheshire had grabbed the briefcase. With a cry of triumph she leaped down from the ladder, making a perfect three-point landing, then vaulted out of the ring. "I'll just be taking my daughter back!" she cried to Starfire, pulling the laughing Lian into her arms and sprinting back up the ramp. At the top she turned around and waved the briefcase in the air one more time, then vanished with the toddler.

Speedy and Nightwing remained sprawled on the mat for a long time, stunned by this sudden reversal of fortune as the crowd murmured. Then eventually Nightwing staggered painfully to his feet. Reaching down, he helped a weeping Speedy to stand. 

"I'll help you get her back," Nightwing swore to his friend. 

"You shall not stand alone!" cried Starfire, jumping into the ring. 

"You're not going anywhere without me!" said Kid Flash as he, Wonder Girl, Aqualad and Cyborg all ran down to enter the ring.

"Titans Together!" they announced--and the broadcast cut to a commercial.

"I think Luthor will be forced to admit that was a success," Bruce said with a smile as the roar of the crowd resonated all the way back into the common room.

"Daddy sweaty," Lian giggled as Roy came back and took her in his arms. 

"I can't believe you stuck that landing," he said to Cheshire, who made a scoffing noise and tossed her hair, smiling. He turned to Dick as Lian tried to pry his mask off. "Have you got plans tomorrow? I've got Lian for the weekend and I thought we'd go to the beach."

"No teaching her wrestling moves!" said Cheshire, turning around at the door on the way to the women's locker room.

"Hey, I'm not the one who taught her that chokehold she pulled out last weekend," Roy called after her.

"And do _you_ have any plans tomorrow?" Bruce said to Clark as the Titans headed off, chattering about their beach plans.

"Hm," Clark pretended to consider. "I think I'm going to have to go over that upcoming promo again, you know the one."

"The one where Clark Kent, hapless interviewer, is interviewing Billionaire Brucie and it becomes increasingly clear Brucie is flirting with him?"

" _That's_ the one."

"That might take a lot of practice."

Clark bit back a smile as he hoisted his gym bag. "I hope so."

* * *

"I must say, Kent, that now that you've cleaned yourself up and learned how to wear a suit instead of overalls, you're nearly good-looking."

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne. Now, about this match with Two-Face--"

"--But I don't know why you've taken to wearing glasses," Brucie went on as if he hadn't heard. "You'd be so much more attractive without them. If you want some tips on personal grooming, you could always swing by the Manor sometime. I'd be happy to...help you out." He reached out and took Kent's tie in his hand, tugging very slightly. 

Clark had a sudden rather inconvenient flashback to the fact that at this point in the "practicing" they had usually ended up kissing. "Yes--well--" he stammered, for a moment actually flustered. "That's--that's very--"

The corners of Bruce's eyes crinkled in a distinctly un-Brucie way for a moment. Then Brucie was taking a step back, and Clark knew he'd realized Clark was on the verge of breaking into nervous giggles. "--Tempting, I know," Brucie said. "I'll just let you think about it. Now," he continued briskly, "this Two-Face match is a simple thing, he's just jealous because I'm more handsome than he is. At least twice as handsome, obviously."

"I'm of two minds about what to do with you," growled Two-Face, appearing from nowhere to shove Clark aside and confront Brucie. Harvey had been refining his makeup recently, and his latest look was especially dramatic--one glaring yellow eye, scarred welts running up and down his left side. Clark cringed and looked like he wanted to run for cover as Brucie and Two-Face bantered and threatened each other, barely managing to keep the mic in his outstretched, shaking hand. And when--inevitably--Two-Face threw Brucie through a backdrop and stormed off, Clark raced to his side.

“I’ll sue him!” gasped Brucie, wilting dramatically into the wreckage. “For bruising my beautiful, bankable, valuable face!”

“I...I think you’re okay,” said Clark.

“Are you sure?” whimpered Brucie. “I think I might need someone to kiss it better.”

Clark dropped the mic and fled, leaving a battered and bereft Brucie in the rubble, moaning for help.

* * *

“--really appreciate all your support,” Hal Jordan said, standing in the middle of the ring in his civilian jeans and bomber jacket. Green signs blossomed in the audience: _“Ring Slinger,” “In Brightest Day,” “Welcome back to the REAL GL.”_ There were also a few with somewhat divergent opinions: _”Go Home Jordan”_ and _”Semper Fidelis”_ among them. “It’s been a hard recovery, but I’m back to a hundred percent now and--”

Hal stopped and turned slowly as a 70s-style funk groove struck up: John Stewart’s theme song. (Stewart had just sighed and rolled his eyes at the choice at first, but admitted it had grown on him). Stewart, in full Green Lantern regalia, strode down the ramp with the championship belt around his waist and climbed into the ring. The two of them looked at each other for a long moment, then Stewart said, “Brother, I’m glad you’re back.”

He reached out and pulled Hal into an embrace, prompting a confused welter of cheers and boos from the audience.

“Thanks, John,” said Hal. “I couldn’t have asked for a better successor to the title than you, man.”

John stepped back and leveled a finger at him. “And I’m not giving it up just because you’re back,” he said.

Hal spread his hands wide. “Of course not.”

“ _But_ , I know you lost the title because you were injured. And I know you never got a chance for a rematch against Sinestro,” John went on. “And I also know that unless we settle this once and for all, I’ll always be seeing signs like _that_ one.” He pointed at the “Welcome Back to the REAL GL” sign, and Hal grimaced. “So I say that at Identity Crisis--” the upcoming pay-per-view, “--We settle this fairly. You and me in the ring for the championship,” he said, sticking out his hand.

_This_ the audience could agree on, and when Hal took his hand and shook it the approval was deafening.

* * *

“I don’t _have_ a favorite shampoo.” Clark cast him a narrow look, and Bruce shrugged. “I don’t. I just buy whatever’s cheapest.” He plucked a bottle off the shelf and tossed it into the shopping cart. “So we might as well keep the apartment stocked with your favorite.”

“We need more toilet paper too,” Clark said, admitting defeat on the shampoo issue and steering the cart toward the paper products aisle. It was hard to keep the Metropolis apartment stocked when they were only there a few nights every other month or so. It seemed like every time there was a show in Metropolis, they had to shop for something banal that they’d run out of last time and hadn’t replaced.

As he and Bruce bickered good-naturedly over whether to pick up another blanket--”We have plenty,” Bruce pointed out. “Yes, and you tend to steal them all,” Clark retorted--Clark realized something odd: he looked forward to these shopping trips. He _liked_ wheeling around a cart that inevitably had one wheel broken, discussing whether to pick up hummus or guacamole for the snacks and choosing an old kung fu DVD to buy for a treat. It felt...comfortable.

It felt good.

“Hey, look.” Bruce disappeared down the toy aisle and Clark followed him to find him holding up two action figures: The Kryptonian (“Now with Psionic Claw action!”) and The Dark Knight (“With Bat-grapple!”). Bruce held them up so Clark could see the backs: “They’re marketed together! They’re a matched set!”

He looked so absurdly happy about this that Clark suddenly found himself unable to say anything coherent at all. He reached out and took them from Bruce to toss into the shopping cart. “It’ll be a hoot to see if the cashier recognizes us,” he said, and Bruce’s smile kindled into something irresistible.

Fortunately, no one happened to wander by to see two grown men making out in the toy aisle of Target.

“Look, Dick’s here too,” said Bruce as the kiss ended, grabbing the Nightwing action figure. _“High flying death-defying acrobatics!”_ he read from the box. “Not many left, either. Not surprised they’re selling well.”

Clark pulled the Wonder Girl figure off the shelf and glanced at the back. “They’re going with the story that she was raised by the actual Titans now? She’s not a young version of Diana anymore? I guess Donna will be glad to hear that, but--Bruce?”

He glanced around the empty aisle, then caught a glimpse of Bruce’s shoulder at the far end. “Hey,” he said, putting Wonder Girl back and heading to where Bruce stood. “What are you--oh.”

Bruce was standing standing in front of a forlorn “Clearance” bin at the endcap. He looked up at Clark with a smile that aimed for “wry” and didn’t quite make it.

In his hands was a “Jason Todd as Robin” action figure, marked down to 50% off.

“I don’t understand it,” Bruce said softly, turning over the box in his hands as if searching for clues. “He’s a hard worker, he’s a great wrestler--why can’t he get over?”

“He’s not Dick,” Clark said, and Bruce grimaced. “He doesn’t do the fancy high-flying stuff that the audience loves, and he’s not a big muscled monster like Luthor loves, and he’s--well, he’s not great on the mic, Bruce.”

Bruce shook his head. “He doesn’t have to be. He’s _good._ ” His eyes were pained, and Clark knew that the lackluster reaction that Jason was getting was eating away at him. “Is it something _I’m_ doing wrong, Clark?”

Clark sighed. “Don’t get started with the self-flagellation,” he said. Bruce looked annoyed, which Clark preferred to the lorn look in his eyes before. “You can’t control how the audience is going to react, Bruce. At a certain level, they’re never going to forgive him for taking Dick’s place, for simply not being Dick. There’s nothing he--or you--can do about that.”

"He hasn't given up, and neither will I," Bruce said, glaring at the clearance sign as though it personally offended him.

"Of course not."

Bruce placed the action figure back carefully in the bin. "Let's get going," he said.

They got through checkout without the clerk recognizing them--Clark supposed there was no real reason to connect the smiling man in jeans and a Smallville t-shirt with the red-eyed hulking monster in the box--and they were putting their bags in the trunk of Bruce's car when Bruce suddenly said "Ah!" and snapped his fingers. "I forgot something. Wait here, I'll be right back."

Clark put the car seat back and caught a quick nap in the early summer sun, waking when he heard Bruce open the trunk again. He looked back to see Bruce drop a bulging bag into the trunk and come around to the driver's side, humming Billionaire Brucie's theme song under his breath and slightly off key. Bruce started the car and they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, negotiating through Metropolis traffic on their way back to the apartment.

They drove in silence for a time, Clark watching Bruce's face, Bruce remaining resolutely oblivious to being watched. Finally, Clark broke the silence: "Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"Where exactly do you think you're going to display six identical Robin action figures?"

Bruce didn't bother to look embarrassed. "Probably next to the three Nightwing figures I bought with them." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment, brought the car to a stop at a red light, and met Clark's amused gaze. "I couldn't leave them there," he said. "Just sitting there in the clearance bin."

"Of course not," said Clark. The light changed and Bruce stepped on the gas again.

"Hey," he said a moment later, as Clark kissed him soundly a few times on the cheek and neck, "Don't distract me from driving."

* * *

They put the action figures--all eleven of them--on the mantel above the fireplace, a long line of brightly-clad Robins and Nightwings flanked on either end by a black-clad, glowering Kryptonian or Dark Knight, guarding the living room when they were away.


	36. Watch the World Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Joker works on refining his gimmick, with some help from Jason Todd.

_ In its own twisted way the wrestling business is kind of like a real life Never Never Land in that wrestlers are allowed to extend their childhood: dressing up in costumes and playing cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, or whatever else. --Bruce Hart _

The dim cool glow of a phone screen woke Clark. “Wha?” he mumbled, looking vaguely around the hotel room until his eyes focused enough to take in the sight of Bruce glaring ferociously at his phone. “Bruce. _Bruce._ ” He reached out and tried to cover up the screen; Bruce yanked the phone away and kept tapping at it. “If Luthor finds out that you’re trolling the wrestling forums, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

“It’s not _trolling_ ,” snapped Bruce. “It’s _correcting._ ”

“Bruce,” groaned Clark, “He’s never going to get over like Dick. He’s accepting this better than you are. You have to let go of it.” He sat up in bed and kissed the side of Bruce’s neck, wrapping his fingers around Bruce’s clenched hands. “Let it go, my warrior, my samurai, my hoplite.” One by one, he pried Bruce’s fingers off the phone, murmuring the only endearments he had ever been able to use that didn’t sound ludicrous. “Sleep, get some sleep, my knight. Let the world take care of itself for just a little while, my bold cossack, my cavalier, my heart.”

He whispered against Bruce’s skin, rubbing at his tense shoulders until they slowly unknotted, until his breaths came slow and easy. 

And then he hid the phone under his own pillow so Bruce couldn’t retrieve it without waking him.

* * *

Nightwing and Arsenal--Speedy had chosen a new name to mark his new commitment to being a good father and keeping clean--were on the screen, pulling off yet another amazing match against Gizmo and Mammoth. Bruce was watching Dick perform, and Clark was (surreptitiously) watching Bruce. There was something unbearably charming about the way his brows pinched together when a difficult move was being set up, the way he bit his lip whenever Dick was in midair. 

“That’s brilliant!” Joker’s cackle of laughter sliced through the conversations in the common room. “Harley, you never cease to amaze me.”

Clark turned as Napier and Quinn entered the room--and frowned. He started to ask, then bit the question back. Others were not so tactful: “Napier, what the hell did you do to your makeup?” asked Billy Batson, looking up from his Gameboy.

“Like it?” Napier gestured at his face, the makeup no longer sharp and defined but blurred and smeared as if he had scrubbed his hands across his face. His eyes were black, skull-like hollows, and the red marking his lips had been stretched partway across his face, mimicking scars at the corners of his mouth. His hair was no longer neatly combed back, but a wild tangle around his face.

“You look like hell,” Billy said.

Joker hunched up his shoulders in a gleeful giggle, grabbing Harley. “It’s perfect, Harl! Perfect!”

“I know!” Harley threw her hands out and did a quick pirouette, coming to an abrupt stop with a huge grin on her face. “Joker and I were talking, and we think his image needs some updating. A darker take to match the Dark Knight, ya know? We want him to be _dangerous_ , something really cool, something _real_!”

“The whole ‘dapper clown’ angle was great, but it’s time to step it up a notch,” Joker explained, dusting off his lapels. “True art consists not of simply making people laugh, but of showing them the darkness in their own souls, the gaps and slippage between our image of the world and the messy, horrible reality. Introduce a little anarchy, a touch of uncertainty into people’s neat little narratives.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Hey, Lex!” he called as Luthor entered the room, gazing down at his phone. “How do you feel about weapons in the ring?”

“Fine, as long as you don’t plan on actually hurting someone with it,” Lex said absently.

Joker’s laugh cut off into an annoyed grimace. “Geez, Luthor,” he said in an utterly normal voice, “Just how crazy do you think I am? You think I want to lose my job?”

“Mr. J is a _professional_ ,” Harley snapped.

Luthor rolled his eyes as Joker threw his lanky frame into a chair. “God save me from _professionals_ ,” he muttered.

“No one understands me,” moaned Joker. “No one understands my art. Okay, you do, Harley,” he conceded to the crestfallen Quinn.

“I get it, man,” said Jason suddenly, closing the book he’d been reading. “You just want to remind people of the chaos underlying everything. That we make up stories to give meaning to the world, but the world doesn’t give a damn about our neat little stories. It’s all randomness and cruelty underneath, so you might as well laugh at it.”

Joker sat up straighter and looked at Jason, his eyebrows raised. “ _Well!_ ” he said, impressed. “You seem a bright and perceptive young man. I’ve got some ideas about that six-man ladder match coming up, how’s about we talk about it?”

Clark watched the three of them settle into a spirited conversation. He turned to make some light comment to Bruce about strange bedfellows, then stopped.

Bruce was staring at the television screen with Dick and Roy on it, but his eyes were unseeing, his shoulders tight. “Hey,” Clark said, taking his elbow and shaking it lightly.

“That’s all we’ve got,” Bruce said, his voice very low, not looking at Clark. “Stories are all we have. You can’t _laugh_ at them.” He looked up then, and Clark blinked at the raw pain in his eyes. “You can’t just laugh at stories.”

Then he seemed to slowly take in Clark’s concern; he shook his head as if to banish dark thoughts, and some of the tension went out of his face. “Anyway, that’s my point of view. But not everyone agrees, I suppose.” He pointed to the screen with his chin, clearly changing the topic. “They’re doing great, aren’t they?”

Clark glanced up to the slow-motion replay, Dick’s body arcing from the turnbuckle into his opponent. “They are,” he said, squeezing Bruce’s elbow just a little before releasing it.

* * *

“You know what?” Joker announced, throwing his arms out to address the crowd, the black pits of his eyes staring out at them, “I don’t need that scaly lizard as a tag team partner anyway!” Killer Croc had recently decided he wasn’t going to take Joker’s abuse anymore and had turned on him, chokeslamming him in the center of the ring. “He never had a sense of humor. Just like you losers,” he said, waving a contemptuous hand at the audience. He paused and beamed at Harley, standing outside the ring and holding his purple coat, gazing up at him. “Other than you, Harley.” She jumped to attention, holding out his coat in readiness.

“I need a tag team partner who’ll really appreciate me,” Joker said as he climbed out of the ring. 

Harley’s eyes sparkled and she bounced in place as if she couldn’t contain herself.

“Someone who knows how to work with genius.”

“Ooh! Ooh!” Harley squeaked, helping him into his coat. “Do you--do you have someone specific in mind, Mr. J?”

“I do indeed, my dear Harley,” Joker cooed, pinching her chalk-white cheek. He spun to address the crowd once more. “Scabies and Gentlenerds, allow me to introduce to you my new tag team partner, the only partner I will ever need…”

With a flourish, he reached under the ring and pulled out an object.

“Say hello to Mr. Crowbar!” he cried, flourishing it in the air, oblivious to the way Harley’s shoulders slumped in disappointment.

* * *

The Dark Knight and the Kryptonian circled each other warily in the ring. “Say something, damn you!” rasped the Dark Knight; as usual, the Kryptonian merely sneered as Brainiac laughed from the sidelines. “The Kryptonian does not waste words on lesser life-forms!” cackled Brainiac.

The two battled around the ring, trading throw for throw and blow for blow, but it was clear that the Dark Knight was losing ground. A flurry of heavy punches left him reeling against the turnbuckle. The Kryptonian advanced on him, a cruel smile touching his alien, impassive face, his arms raised to deliver the finishing move.

And then the Dark Knight raised a hand to his mouth and blew a cloud of green powder at the Kryptonian.

The powder sparkled poison-bright in the spotlights, a glittering fog around the Kryptonian--and the Kryptonian covered his face and staggered backwards, his knees going weak like a marionette with its strings cut. For a moment, the Dark Knight clearly had the upper hand and the Kryptonian was unable to respond at all. Brainiac sputtered on the sidelines, furious and impotent, and although the “alien menace from beyond the stars” recovered to put in a good fight, he was obviously weakened by the contact with the powder that still clung to his sweat-sheened skin, which enabled the Dark Knight to finally pin him and win the match.

“I don’t understand,” Clark said later, as he combed green glitter out of his hair. “What was the point of that move?”

Bruce’s eyes glinted. “Just putting it on the table for a possible future storyline,” he said.

“Wheels within wheels,” Clark laughed.

“You know me so well.”

* * *

“What’s that, Crow?” Projected onto the Jumbotron as though a camera just happened to catch him backstage in a private moment, Joker leaned close to his “tag team partner,” listening.

He pulled an apologetic face as if being chastised. 

“I’m sorry, I should have said Mr. Crowbar. I know you don’t like people being too familiar. But what’s that you say?”

He leaned close again, pressing his face against the dark metal.

“Oh, that’s such a good point! Hold on, brother, and I’ll fix that for you.”

Joker moved so his back was to the camera, blocking the view of the crowbar as he whistled happily to himself. “Ta-da!” he announced, holding up the crowbar--now with two large googly eyes attached to it, giving it a jaunty “face.” “Better? Thank you, I think so too!”

* * *

“Hey!” Jason called out over the chatter in the common room. “Keep it down, will you? I gotta hear this.”

On the monitor Joker was cradling his crowbar, crooning to it. As people lowered their voices--some with grudging looks at Jason--his voice pierced the room:

“What’s that, Mr. Crowbar? You think I should smash one of these shiny monitors? But that would be vandalism, wouldn’t it?” 

A rapt pause as the audience screamed in delight, chanting _”Smash it! Smash it!”_

“Geez,” said Killer Croc. “He got a lot of heat before, but listen to ‘em now. They love him.”

“Well, they love ‘Mr. Crowbar,’” Selina said, wrinkling her nose.

“I think they just love wanton destruction,” said Diana.

“Didn’t I just say that?”

Joker laughed as the audience egged him on, then bent back to his weapon to address it. “Oh, very well, Mr. Crowbar. You make a valid point, and so--”

The Joker’s long, skinny body arced as he hoisted the crowbar and brought it down with a shower of sparks and shattering glass on the monitor, pounding at it until it was no more than fragments. Announcers and camera crew scattered in panic; the crowd howled with glee.

“Wow, Mr. J!” Harley enthused--from a safe distance. “That was spectacular!”

“I don’t know, my dear,” sighed Joker, looking down. “I fear I went too far.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Joker pulled a tragic face. “Just look! Mr. Crowbar has lost an eye! And we’re just about to begin our big match against the Dark Doofus--he’ll have to fight injured!” He cradled the crowbar tenderly as he moved toward the ring. “Hang in there, brother!”

“Man,” said Jason, looking at the monitor, where Joker was brandishing the weapon at a looming Dark Knight. “It’s like a damn magic trick or something. Smash a few monitors, sell how dangerous it is, and no one will notice that you practically never get around to hitting someone with it.” The crowbar whiffed through the air over the Dark Knight’s head. “And then when you actually _do_ use it on someone--”

The Joker jabbed at the Dark Knight with the crowbar, putting his hand between it and his opponent at the last second to cushion the blow; Bruce tumbled backwards as if he’d been bludgeoned and a collective gasp of horror rose from the crowd.

“It’s all in the selling,” said Clark. “And no one sells like Bruce.”

Jason frowned at the monitor, his eyes narrowed intensely. “I’ve _got_ to learn how to sell taking a beating better.”

* * *

“Robin! Excuse me, Robin?” Clark Kent, mic in hand, chased down the wrestler in the hallway after the six-man ladder match. 

As he drew close, Robin turned on him: _“What?”_

Kent ignored the frazzled tone in the wrestler’s voice, pressing closer: “Robin, you came really close to climbing that ladder, grabbing the briefcase and winning yourself a shot at the championship title,” said Clark Kent, holding the mic up to Robin’s distraught face. “And if it hadn’t been for the Joker, you might have pulled it off. Now Sinestro’s the one going up against John Stewart. Any thoughts?”

“I don’t understand it!” Robin threw his hands in the air, exasperation and anger sharpening his voice. “Joker could have gotten the championship shot himself--all he had to do was climb the ladder and _take_ it! Everyone else was down, the ladder was wide open. But instead he came after _me_ and let Sinestro recover enough to get up there and grab the briefcase.” His face twisted with baffled fury. “ _Why_? Why did he pass up winning the match to bash me a few more times? It doesn’t make _sense_!”

Clark’s eyes went wide as a figure loomed up behind Robin, dark-cowled and dark-caped. “Some men don’t make sense, Robin,” rasped the Dark Knight. “A wise man once told me that. Some men aren’t looking for anything logical, like title chances or winning matches. Some men can’t be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with.” He looked beyond Robin, straight at the camera, making eye contact with each viewer.

“Some men just want to watch the world burn.”

* * *

“Are you okay, Bruce? You seem...I don’t know.”

Bruce had shrugged off invitations to get drinks with the other wrestlers after the pay-per-view, his eyes distant, and Clark had made his excuses too. “Your loss,” Jason had chortled, still high on adrenaline from his match. 

Bruce was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. “Did you hear the crowd tonight? At the end of the ladder match, when Joker went after Robin instead of climbing the ladder?”

“First off, of course I did,” Clark chuckled, slipping into bed beside him. “I was there to interview poor traumatized Robin, remember? And yeah, they were going nuts.”

“But they were cheering for Joker,” Bruce said, his voice low. “They wanted him to beat up Jason.”

“You mean Robin,” corrected Clark. “The character. They wanted one character they think is cool to beat up another character they don’t like. It’s not _Jason_ , you know.”

“But it’s a bad story,” said Bruce. He closed his eyes. “Wanting the heel to win.” He sounded strangely young, and lost. “I understand people cheering against me, because the Dark Knight is built up to be strong and scary. But Robin’s just a kid. How can they want him to lose against a madman like the Joker? It’s not _fair._ ”

“Sometimes people like to mess with expectations,” Clark said. Bruce seemed so far away, off in some private world that he couldn’t reach; he felt a stab of foreboding go through him. “They feel like Jason was forced on them by the powers that be, while they’ve embraced Joker freely, on their own terms. I don’t like it either, but...people can be perverse, you know? You can’t control their reactions.”

Bruce didn’t respond, and after a while Clark sighed and lay down next to him, letting one hand rest across Bruce’s bare chest as if to keep him pinned to reality. 

He was almost asleep when he heard Bruce say very softly, more to himself than to Clark:

“Some people just want to watch the world burn.”


	37. #DeathInTheFamily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason reaches a breaking point in the DCW and has a fateful match with the Joker.

_ As the two men came to know one another. . . . their plays became increasingly intricate, jockeying between sadism and surrender. --Shaun Assael _

“After the chokeslam, I’m going to use the Kryptonite on you, but this time--”

“--Kryptonite?”

Bruce scowled at Clark’s smile. “Yes, Kryptonite. You’re the Kryptonian, from the planet Krypton, and the green powder is from asteroids made up from the chunks of your long-dead planet. Thus, ergo, Q.E.D., Kryptonite.”

“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

Bruce rolled his eyes-- _Of course I have_ \--and continued: “This time I’d like you to sink to your knees as though it’s sapped all the strength out of you, maybe have your face go blank.”

“So you’re saying you want me on my knees in front of you?” 

Bruce glanced around the gym full of wrestlers: Joker was jogging on the treadmill, Diana was lifting weights (an impressive amount of them), Jean Paul was doing chin-ups and Jason was taking a break with a jug of water and his laptop. “It’s a rather nice image, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice. “I was thinking that once I had you there, helpless and kneeling before me, I might just lean down slowly, grab you by the hair and--”

“--knee me in the chin, knocking me into the turnbuckle?” Clark said more loudly. 

Bruce blinked and realized Jason was coming toward them, laptop in hand. “Right,” he said, recovering quickly, “and then you could counter with--”

“It’s over, isn’t it?” Jason was oblivious to any undertones of their conversation as he stood there with his computer in hand, his expression caught between furious and forlorn. “It’s finally over. I’m almost relieved.”

“What do you mean?” Clark asked.

“I was looking at the promotional materials for the upcoming pay-per-view,” Jason said, his voice flat. “And it’s--well. Look.” He held the laptop up so they could see the web page.

Bruce looked at it for a moment. “Ah,” he said softly. 

“What am I missing?” said Clark.

“I’m not on the card,” Jason said. “I was supposed to be against Joker at the next one, and they’re putting him up against Killer Croc insead. They’re starting a new angle for him, one without me in it. And look at the lineup for the show after the pay-per-view. Bruce and I were supposed to be in a tag team match together. That’s off the card too.” He hoisted the laptop, looking at the screen with a bitter twist to his mouth. “The bastard hasn’t even bothered to tell me yet.”

“Jason, you don’t--”

“--But I do know, Bruce.” Jason snapped the laptop shut, glaring at him. “Face it, I’m just not getting enough pop to be paired up with the great Dark Knight. I’m the Sucky Second Robin, that’s what they call me in the forums.” He tossed the laptop onto a chair, not gently; it bounced off with a loud clatter. “And don’t give me any more of that bull about paying my dues and sucking it up!” His voice was rising; Bruce grimaced but he kept going: “You know, I had a good thing going with the MMA, I didn’t _have_ to get into pro wrestling. There’s a bigger world than your DCW playground, Bruce, and I’m beginning to think I was stupid to limit myself to your nice tidy little kayfabe universe!”

“Todd.” Jack Napier appeared behind Jason before Bruce could respond. “You’re kidding. Luthor’s going to let you go? But--we’re a team, you and me! We work so well together!” 

“I guess that doesn’t matter,” muttered Jason.

Napier frowned and threw an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry to hear that, Todd. I truly am. We’ve had a good run, you and me.” He shot a sly look at Jason, his serious frown tilting upward into a grin once more. “But hey, if you’re going to go out, shouldn’t you do it with a bang?”

Jason’s sullen look brightened. “What have you got in mind?”

“ _Oh,_ there are _so_ many possibilities!” warbled Napier, launching into full-on Joker Mode once more. “We’ve got this cage match coming up, right? Last thing you’re on the card for. You’re booked to lose, and I think we can come up with some creative ways to make that happen, don’t you?”

“Jason,” said Bruce. “Just--don’t burn your bridges, okay? It’s possible that--” 

“Forget it, Bruce,” said Jason. He was still smiling, but there was stone underneath it. “I’ve had enough of playing the game by your rules. It’s time I do something that I’ll at least be remembered for.”

He walked off with the Joker’s arm still slung around his shoulders.

* * *

Joker was facing down Luthor in the ring: “A little proposition,” he had called it. “Considering the DCW is working _so_ hard to get everyone using social media these days, I think we should _hop_ on the bandwagon--” Joker leaped into the air; Lex Luthor stepped backwards, clearly unnerved but schooling his face to not look startled, “--and start giving the DCW Universe more say in how the matches go! Don’t you agree, Lex?”

“Yes, of course,” Luthor said carefully. “I’m a firm believer in increasing fan involvement.”

“So I say let’s do a poll of the DCW Universe! We’ll give them some choices in how my cage match will go against the Boy Blunder. It’ll be fun!”

The audience cheered as Luthor considered, then nodded. “Okay, Joker. We’ll do it your way.”

Two hours later, Joker was standing on one side of the ring, Robin on the other, and Luthor in the middle announced the results: “The DCW Universe had three choices. Once, Robin and the Dark Knight against the Joker. Two, Robin against the Joker, one on one. Three, Robin against the Joker--and Mr. Crowbar.” He gestured to the Jumbotron. “And the results are…”

The numbers spun up onto the screen and Luthor read them off.

“Five percent wanted to see the Dynamic Duo together against the Joker. Fifteen percent wanted the Joker and Robin to go _mano-a-mano._ And a whopping eighty percent chose Joker and his ‘tag team partner’ Mr. Crowbar against Robin alone.”

The Joker burst into whoops of maniacal laughter as Robin gesticulated wildly. “That’s not fair!” Robin yelled as the crowd cheered. “But I’ll take you anyway, Joker! No matter what!” His voice was a blend of panic, disbelief, and resolve--just as if this wasn’t exactly the result he had counted on. “As if they’ll pass up the chance to let Joker wale on me with a crowbar while I’m trapped in a cage,” he had said with a kind of bitter satisfaction. “They’re totally predictable. The only question is whether it’ll be a hundred percent or not.”

“Well, it...wasn’t a hundred percent?” said Clark, looking hopefully at Bruce backstage.

Bruce gave him an opaque look and went back to putting on his cowl in preparation for their match.

* * *

“--And you’ll do a run-in at the end, pick up my broken body and hold me, gazing at the sky in anguish,” Jason said. “Come on, Bruce,” he said when Bruce grimaced. “You know it’s necessary for closure. At least pretend you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

Bruce took a careful breath as though Jason had punched him in the stomach. “I _will_ miss you _if_ you go, Jason. Luthor might not be planning on cutting you. You can lose tonight and still come back from your defeat. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.” 

“It’s a good story, Bruce,” said Jason, shaking his head. He spread his hands and recited: “ _The kid stood alone against impossible odds, against an implacable foe._ You know Luthor’s going to can me soon. I just want--I just want to finish up in a way that’ll be remembered. This way I’ll have an excuse all ready--they can kayfabe put me in a coma or even kill me. I won’t just suddenly vanish. There’ll be some kind of closure.” His mouth twitched. “Help me out, here.”

After a moment, Bruce nodded.

* * *

Robin stood in the middle of the ring, facing off against Joker, the steel cage trapping him inside. For all of his fighter’s muscular frame, he still looked small compared to the gangling height of the clown.

“Mr. Crowbar asked me to remove his eyes, little boy,” said Joker, tapping his hand with the weapon, “Because he didn’t want to see what was about to happen to you. I just want you to know that I’m not responsible for this!” He wheeled around, his hands encompassing all of the arena. “They’re the ones who demanded I bring Mr. Crowbar! They’re the ones who hate you, _boy._ ” 

Clark saw Bruce flinch at the rumble of approval from the crowd. He was in his cape and cowl, preparing for his run-in at the end of the match, standing backstage and waiting for his cue. Clark was still in his ridiculous Kryptonian suit from their earlier match; after a moment he decided that a brotherly gesture wouldn’t be interpreted wrongly and clasped Bruce on the shoulder. It was tense as iron, and Bruce didn’t turn to look at him.

The bell rang and the match started.

At first it was a fairly even match. Robin got a decent offense in, pulling off his best moves, a sort of “greatest hits” match. But then Joker got in a good hit with the crowbar, and the tide began to turn. Robin punched him and he just laughed. Clark could hear the announcers babbling excitedly--“impossible odds” and “plucky lad”--just the kind of phrases Jason had been hoping for. Everything was going just as Jason wanted.

And then Clark heard Bruce take a sharp breath, staring at the monitor. “Jason, _no,_ ” he whispered, harsh and pained.

Clark looked up just in time to catch the glint of a tiny bit of razor blade in Jason’s hand as he sliced into his own forehead, the trickle of crimson blooming into a steady stream.

“Oh man,” he heard Batson groan from the common room. “Right on camera! It’s gonna be hell to edit that out.”

It was a clumsy job, done in haste, and the cascade of blood running down Jason’s face soon became a torrent, masking Jason’s features and splattering onto the mat. Jason stumbled, blinded by the blood in his eyes, and Clark could tell that despite his maniacal laughter the Joker was having to take extra pains to make sure Jason didn’t accidentally walk right into a crowbar blow.

And despite it all, he was pulling off the match of his career with the Joker. He sold his fear and desperation with every movement, jerking at every impact of the crowbar. His flurries of offense grew fewer, fainter. 

_He’s finally learned how to sell a beating_ , Clark realized dimly.

“God,” said Bruce. His voice was thick and he couldn’t seem to look away from the monitor. “No.”

Clark could see camera crews scrambling around the edge of the ring, looking for an angle that would obscure some of the blood, but it was no use. Blood pooled and puddled on the mat, streaked Joker’s face. Jason’s hair was sopping with it. His knees gave out and he sagged to the mat, unable to stand any longer, one red-splashed hand reaching up futilely as if to stop the inevitable blow.

Joker stood above him, crowbar lifted. He paused. Looked out of the cage at the audience, his mouth twisted with bitter laughter. “What do you say?” he called, and his voice was a white-hot stiletto. “Do I pin him and end the match, or do I keep going?” He grinned. “All those in favor of a beaten bird, say ‘Aye!”

And the crowd roared, a deep low sound of hungry approval. Clark felt Bruce flinch as if it were a blow to the chest.

“Those who wish me to spare the poor dear boy,” fluted the Joker, “Raise your voices!”

The response was pitched higher, lighter: younger voices, on the whole. And so much weaker.

“Let me just _clarify_ ,” said the Joker. “You want me to keep hitting this Robin with a crowbar even though he’s broken and bleeding at my feet?” He shook his head at the rafter-rattling approval. “Oh,” he said softly. “You _are_ funny.”

And then he raised the crowbar once more.

As it came down, Clark heard a young voice in the audience cry out “No!” as if his heart was breaking, but the arc of the crowbar slowed not a bit.

The last five minutes were a blur to Clark, a bloody smudge of memory. He remembered hearing the announcers gleefully announcing that “#DeadRobin is trending on Twitter worldwide!” He remembered spotting Luthor’s face in the crowd milling backstage, pale and set with fury. He remembered the feel of Bruce’s shoulder under his hand and the sound of Bruce’s breaths.

And then it was over, and the Joker was clasping his bloody hands over his head in victory. Harley was unlocking the cage door, and he was climbing out.

“Wayne! Wayne! You’re on! Get the hell out there!”

Bruce flinched at the sound of Hal Jordan’s voice, tearing his eyes from the monitor. He broke into a run and headed out into the arena. Clark watched him go, then switched his attention to the monitor to see the Dark Knight appear at the top of the ramp. 

The crowd had gone quiet as the Joker slipped away through them and disappeared rather than face the Dark Knight. The cowled figure paused at the top of the ramp, staring at the huddled form in the blood-soaked ring. “Jason,” he rasped, and the crowd murmured--it was always “Robin” in public.

As the Dark Knight ran down the ramp, there was a cackle of Joker laughter from the loudspeakers, and the pyrotechnics in the four turnbuckles went off with a thundercrack, turning the corners of the ring into pillars of scarlet flame for a moment.

Bruce had known about the fireworks, but he staggered backwards at the crackle of sound as if he had utterly forgotten about them, throwing his hands up in front of his face. As the flames died down he threw open the cage door and knelt at Robin’s side, covering his face for a moment. His shoulders shook. Leaning down, he gathered Jason’s broken form into his arms.

And then he raised his head and looked out at the crowd, and Clark drew in a sharp, helpless breath at the expression in his eyes.

Slowly, he stood and he carried Jason out of the arena, ignoring the jeers and cheers of the crowd that rained around them. He didn’t falter, he didn’t look to either side.

And then they disappeared around the corner. The match was over--and it was a match that would appear on “greatest hits” compilations forevermore, but no one backstage was thinking about that at the moment.

* * *

“What the _hell_ were you thinking, Todd!” Luthor was pale with fury, his green eyes blazing. “Blading like that--you think I want sports commissioners breathing down my neck again like they did when my father was in charge of this promotion? _Do you_?”

“It’s not illegal,” said Jason, scrubbing his face with a towel that came away crimson. “And did you hear that crowd pop?”

“People start thinking I encourage my workers to deliberately mutilate themselves, and this whole _business_ will become illegal. You want all your friends to lose their jobs? Oh, there’s going to be hell to pay for this one, Todd.”

“Oh come off it,” snarled Jason. “You’re canning me anyway. You think I’m blind? You think I can’t see I’m not on the card after tonight? How were you going to break it to me, huh--by an email?”

All of the rage in Luthor’s face shifted to ice-cold impassivity. “Maybe I was just going to send you back down to a developmental promotion, Todd. Maybe I just thought you needed more time to figure out your style, find an approach that was your own.” He stalked up until he was right in Jason’s face. “But you’ll never know, because now I _am_ going to fire you. Pack up your things and get the hell out.”

And he turned on his heel and walked away.

All the other wrestlers were avoiding eye contact with Jason, giving him a wide berth as they picked up the gear, as if his ill-fortune might somehow rub off on them. Only Joker gave him a furtive thumbs-up as he slipped out the door, leaving Clark and Bruce alone with the former Robin.

“Well,” said Jason, his voice cracking with the attempt to sound cheerful. “I guess I put on a hell of a final match. No one will be forgetting that anytime soon.” He looked at Bruce, who was standing immobile next to Clark, his cowl pulled down and his gaze distant, and his own hard stare softened. “I’m sorry, Bruce,” he said, putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “I know you hated it, but I thought it was a good story.”

“It was a good story. It was a great match.” Bruce’s voice was abstracted, unmoored. “But the crowd cheered for the Joker. Robin was unarmed, he was helpless. And they called for Joker to kill him. Just a boy, all alone against a killer.”

“Hey,” Jason frowned, concerned; he shook Bruce’s shoulder slightly. “I’m not a boy, you know. And Joker’s not a killer. The audience knows that. They didn’t _really_ want me to die. They know it’s all fake anyway.”

Bruce recoiled from Jason, knocking his hand aside. “How could they cheer for that? What’s wrong with them?”

His voice was angry; it didn’t seem to be directed at Jason, but Jason’s temper flared in response. “Well, maybe they thought it was a good match! That ever cross your mind, Bruce?”

“That wasn’t what they were--”

“God damnit, Bruce, give me a little credit!” Jason shook his head angrily, and drops of blood spattered Bruce’s face. “I’ve had it with this business anyway, man. I was never cut out for it. You’re welcome to it.” He turned and held out his hand to Clark. “Thanks for all the help, man.” He clapped Bruce on the shoulder. “No hard feelings.” 

It was caught somewhere between a statement and a question, but Bruce didn’t say anything in response. He reached up and clasped Jason’s hand for a second, silently. Clark could see his throat working.

Jason sighed. “Thanks for everything,” he murmured, and then was gone.

“Bruce?” Bruce hadn’t moved to wipe Jason’s blood off his face; he seemed to be thinking of something else. “You should probably take a shower, you’re a mess.”

Bruce nodded slowly. But soon, standing under the heavy spray of water and letting it rinse the last remnants of the Kryptonian’s paint from his face, Clark realized that Bruce had never joined him.

“Bruce?” No answer; throwing on a towel he hurried out into the locker room, hair still dripping. 

Bruce was gone.

* * *

Clark glared at his phone as if willing Bruce to answer his texts and calls. Nothing. Clark had checked the local gyms, thinking maybe he’d be working out--sometimes he worked out until he could barely walk, until he was too exhausted to talk--but there was nothing. Should he call the police? And say what, “My friend is late coming back to his hotel room?” They’d laugh. Should he text Dick? But he didn’t want to worry him. 

Clark Kent paced his hotel room and fretted.

His phone buzzed and he pounced on it, but the text was from a number he didn’t recognize. _About your friend…_

Attached was a fuzzy picture of a bar with a crowd outside it. _You might want to be here for him,_ the next message read, followed by an address.

Clark hit the hallway at a run.

* * *

“Clark!” 

Clark turned to see Dick hurrying toward the same street corner he was, phone out.

“You got the same text?” Dick asked as he drew close.

Clark nodded. “Do you know who it was?”

“No idea.” Dick looked at the bar that matched the one in the photo. “You think Bruce is inside?”

Their phones buzzed simultaneously: Another picture of a bar with a crowd out front, and an address further down the street. _Where r u guys_

Clark and Dick looked at each other, then broke into a run together.

* * *

“Rip his head off, the bastard!”

“Get him, Joe! Break his knees!”

“Re-arrange his face!”

Clark and Dick muscled through the seething crowd to find Bruce facing off against a hulking bald man--presumably “Joe”--surrounded by furious bar patrons. Based on the four groaning, limp bodies on the ground behind Joe, the crowd had some reason to be seeking vengeance.

Bruce’s face--still streaked with Jason’s blood--was calm and still as Joe lunged at him. He stepped out of the way, then tossed his opponent face-first into a brick wall. Joe collapsed without a sound.

“Who else wants to prove they can beat a fake athlete?” Bruce’s voice was utterly dispassionate.

The crowd growled angrily and it looked like they were about to abandon the one-on-one format and just pile onto their nemesis when Clark and Dick shoved aside the last people in their way and joined Bruce, shoulder to shoulder. 

“Come on then,” Dick yelled, beckoning at the angry mob. “What are you waiting for?”

Clark put on his most dangerous Kryptonian sneer and made deliberate eye contact with the men who looked like the ringleaders, one by one. Suddenly there was a lot of foot-shuffling and looking down at the pavement, and the crowd suddenly trickled away into the night.

“I didn’t need your help,” said Bruce. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded like he was speaking from a very great distance--a terrifying height, or perhaps a terrible depth. 

“I know, Bruce,” said Dick. “You don’t need anyone’s help.”

“That’s the storyline,” Bruce agreed remotely. There was no alcohol on his breath, but he had started to tremble as the adrenaline rush faded. 

“Let’s get you back to the hotel,” Clark said.

Bruce looked at him as if at a stranger. “They were cheering for the bad guy to win,” he said. “They were cheering for chaos and suffering. I don’t understand.”

“Shh,” said Dick. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got you.”

He and Clark slung an arm around the shaking Bruce and led him back to the hotel.

* * *

“You know how he is,” Dick said, shrugging. He and Clark were out in the hotel corridor, speaking quietly; they had left Bruce apparently asleep in the hotel bed (Clark had checked to make sure the hotel windows were the kind that opened only the barest crack). “Even when he seems to be letting you in, it only goes so far, and then you bounce off this… _shield._ Like how he never invites anyone to his home.” Another shrug. “It’s just who he is.”

“It isn’t like I’ve invited any of you to meet my folks or anything,” Clark said, feeling stung.

“That’s different. It isn’t like we’re swinging through Smallville every couple of months, after all! But every time we’re in Gotham he goes and spends the day with his father--”

“You mean his ‘butler,’?” Clark said, making air-quotes, and Dick laughed. 

“Yeah, the mysterious Alfred--but he never asks us. I mean, he and I are really close, but there’s a lot he keeps locked up inside still.”

Clark grimaced to hide a sudden stab of guilt as he remembered that Bruce had asked him over to his house--more than once, even. But something had always come up, or Clark had been too busy, or...something. It wasn’t like he was worried to meet Bruce’s father! Bruce clearly loved him so much, and he had to be a good person, to take in and raise a foster-kid so well. He was probably just a regular guy, just like Clark’s own Pa. Probably living in the same clean-but-shabby apartment he’d raised Bruce in--Bruce could afford to buy him a nice place now, but fathers always refused to let their sons help out too much. Clark smiled as he imagined it: the broken-down couch Bruce had practiced wrestling moves on, the old television that still didn’t work well, the peeling wallpaper. Just like the Kents.

“Anyway,” Dick was saying, and Clark shook himself out of his reverie, “I’m glad you’re here for him. He seems to be taking this Jason stuff really personally.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Clark said, trying to sound certain of it.

Dick put a hand on his shoulder, met his eyes. “I’m just...really glad you’re here for him.”

Clark swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. “I always will be,” he said.

“I know.”

* * *

Clark let himself back into the hotel room. Bruce was lying on the bed, but his eyes were open, looking up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Clark said. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Bruce. “Thank you. For tonight.”

“Anytime,” said Clark, taking off his shirt and sliding into bed. Bruce didn’t roll away from him, but he seemed distant, abstracted. “I’m here for you,” Clark said, kissing his shoulder.

“I know,” whispered Bruce.

But his breathing never shifted into the deeper breaths of sleep, and he was still staring up at the ceiling when Clark finally fell into uneasy dreams filled with blood and explosions.


	38. A Lonely Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne has lost his smile, and his friends aren't sure how to help him.

_You push your body every night. It hurts--it hurts beyond words. But the mind wants to soar, and the body must follow. --Rey Mysterio_

“He does not seem so changed to me,” Diana said, but she was frowning. She took a sip of her coffee and looked out the window at the sidewalk for a moment, the people passing by. “You say it started when Jason left?”

“It really bothered him,” Clark said. “You know how he is about stories.”

“But it was a _good_ story,” Diana said. “Deeply moving, tragic as Aeschylus.”

“But the audience didn’t seem to see it that way. They cheered for the villain, and--” Clark remembered once more the look in Bruce’s eyes as he stared out at the cheering fans, waving homemade signs: bird silhouettes in a crosshairs, slogans calling for Jason’s death. “--I don’t know, Diana, he takes the face and heel stuff very seriously. There’s something almost childlike about it, in a way. He doesn’t understand a crowd that wants to see the bad guy win.” He sighed. “It’s like a light has gone out inside him since that night.”

Diana tapped her mouth thoughtfully with one perfectly-manicured finger. “He doesn’t miss shows. He doesn’t make mistakes in the ring.”

“But there’s no _joy_ in it. He does what’s necessary, he does what the bookers tell him to do, but he doesn’t embellish, he doesn’t throw himself into like he used to. No storyline ideas, no trying new moves. He doesn’t seem to have much appetite--he eats fine, but without any relish.” Bruce had always had a favorite Chinese takeout in every city, beloved pizza places where he would tempt Clark out for a splurge. Now he ate whatever was cheap and nearby, without really looking at it. “The only thing he seems to do with energy is work out until he’s exhausted.”

“I see. And his sexual energies?”

Clark choked on his mouthful of coffee and had to take a moment to compose himself. “His--I’m sorry, what?”

That was the wrong question. “Has his libido decreased? Does he show less interest in sex?” Diana took in Clark’s expression and her matter-of-fact concern gave way to an eyeroll. “Come now, Clark, not everyone in the DCW finds it necessary to pretend to be oblivious.”

Clark looked away from the amused friendliness in her eyes, watched the couples strolling by for a moment. “He hasn’t been very interested in that either,” he finally said in a small voice. It was, he realized, the first time he had told anyone he and Bruce were more than friends. It felt momentous, and yet like the most ordinary thing in the world. It felt--

He felt Diana’s hand on his arm, looked into her smiling face. “We’ll find a way to help him,” she said.

It felt good.

* * *

Unfortunately, helping Bruce was not as simple as the desire to do so. Dick tried to tempt him into a debate about a new costume for Nightwing, Selina picked affectionate fights with him backstage, Diana challenged him to a lifting competition, but none of them sparked any interest. He smiled politely--Bruce’s idea of a polite smile was more chilling than any snarl--and answered cordially, but there was no passion in any of it.

“I’m not ashamed to admit I even tried to track down his family,” said Harvey one night as the loose group of people who’d decided to appoint themselves Bruce’s informal support group gathered in a hotel lobby. “But good luck sorting out any info about _our_ Bruce from all the junk out there about the _real_ Bruce Wayne. As a ring name designed to make it hard to track you down, it’s brilliant.”

“Do we even know his real name?” asked Selina.

“He claims it really happens to be Bruce Wayne,” said Clark. “That’s how he got the idea, sheer coincidence. All his legal stuff is in that name, so either it’s true or he’s actually changed it.”

Everyone looked discouraged. 

“I never realized how much fun he was having until he wasn’t having it anymore,” sighed Waylon.

“Jason’s doing fine back in MMA,” said Diana. “The extra cachet from being fired from DCW for being ‘too hardcore’ has really lifted his career. Maybe if he came by to talk to Bruce…?”

“They’ve been in touch. Jason’s worried about him too,” said Clark. “But it hasn’t helped. It’s not Jason’s story that bothered him, it’s the audience’s reaction. He’s...lost faith.”

A glum silence fell.

“Here’s a funny thing,” said Dick after a moment. “Some kid accosted me after the show the other day, demanding I go back to being Robin. He used the same words Clark did just now, that the Dark Knight had _lost faith in the magic of wrestling_ , and that he needed to have a Robin. At the time I kind of laughed it off, but...I don’t know, maybe he had something there.”

“Kid, you can’t go back to being Robin,” said Waylon. “You’ve outgrown that gimmick.”

All the wrestlers nodded. 

“Bruce would hate it,” said Clark. “He’d say it was a bad story.”

“ _Stories should progress, not regress,_ ” Waylon said with such a pitch-perfect mimicry of Bruce that everyone stared at him for a moment, astonished, making him shrug and grin.

“I know,” grumbled Dick. “But we have to do _something._ ”

“I guess for now we just keep trying,” said Diana. “Maybe something will work.”

* * *

Nothing worked.

* * *

“Please cut it out,” Bruce said a few weeks later, in between pushups on the hotel floor.

“Cut what out? I was just talking about our next match, and how we could--”

Bruce shoved himself to his feet, turned his back on Clark, and dropped into the chair, staring out over Philadelphia. Clark could see his face reflected in the windows, the city lights spangling it. “After all this time, I think we can manage a match without going over every little detail. They’re all the same anyway: Brainiac gives some big gloating speech, you stand there like a lunk and glare in silence, and then I show up. Big pop for the Dark Knight--” He threw a hand in the air dismissively, “We fight and one of us wins or loses. Rinse and repeat next show.”

“Bruce--”

“--Are you seriously going to tell me that you get any joy from being a monster heel who never gets to talk? I know you hate it. It doesn’t matter. Hell, if Luthor would let you talk I’m sure the audience would eat it up. The Kryptonian would become the coolest thing ever, beating up weaklings and tormenting the helpless. They’d cheer like mad. As long as you’re _charming._ ” Bruce shook his head. “Look, I know you’re worried about me. I know you’ve all been talking about how to ‘cheer me up.’ Waylon doesn’t have much of a poker face, after all. But I’m not _sad_. I’m not going to go throw myself off a bridge or something, I’ll keep doing my job. It’s just as useful as anything else.”

“Bruce, I--”

“--Please,” Bruce said, meeting Clark’s eyes in the window reflection without turning. His voice was flat. “Just stop it.”

“I can’t,” said Clark. “We can’t.”

Bruce looked away again, staring out over the city. “Then I’ll just have to put up with it, I guess.” There was no twinkle of humor in his voice, just a resigned statement of fact.

* * *

“Hey.” Dick elbowed Clark suddenly. “Look over there.”

He nodded toward the corridor of the Miami arena, where people were unpacking t-shirts and putting them on display before the show.

“What am I looking at?”

“You’re looking at the kid in the red shirt and jeans.”

Clark watched as the young man Dick had indicated opened up a box of Green Lantern t-shirts and started stacking them neatly on the display. “Okay, I guess I’m not seeing the point.”

“That’s the kid,” Dick said. “The kid who was telling me I had to go back to being Robin. Back in Richmond.”

“Him? I’ve seen him around here and there,” said Clark. “He's with the road crew?”

“Hey, Jimmy.” Dick flagged down Jimmy Olsen as he bustled by on his way to oversee a camera crew. “How long has the kid in the red shirt worked for us?”

“Tim? He doesn’t actually _work_ work for us. He just started...showing up before shows and doing errands for people without pay. You know, gofer work and stuff, fetching coffee, making photocopies. Seems like a good kid.” Jimmy shrugged and moved on.

The object of their discussion finished stacking the shirts and picked up another box of merchandise. He suddenly seemed to realize he was being watched, and gave Dick and Clark an uneasy smile.

“Tim,” muttered Dick. “Huh.”

* * *

After that, Clark was much more aware of the young man with the floppy dark hair who seemed to always be around, unobtrusively running errands and helping out. Soon enough he was working with the lighting and sound crews--he seemed to have a gift for technical work. But he still did a lot of coffee-fetching and sandwich-delivering. 

It was food delivery he was doing right now, as a matter of fact, handing out drink and snacks to bored and hungry wrestlers backstage.

“Here you go, Mr. Wayne,” Tim said, handing him a cup of coffee.

“Thank you, Mr. Sarcastic,” said Bruce.

“You’re welc--uh.” Tim’s voice broke off into a stammer.

“Did you think I wouldn’t make the connection?” Bruce said. He didn’t seem angry, just mildly curious. “I suspect you’re the same person who sent Dick and Clark those pictures of me after Jason’s last match, for that matter. Thanks for not sharing those on the Internet,” he added, taking a sip of coffee.

“You’re--uh--you’re welcome,” Tim said.

“So what’s the deal, Drake? Why the obsession with Dick Grayson and, by extension, myself?”

“Obsession is--it’s a little strong, don’t you think?”

Bruce almost smiled. “You’ve analyzed every one of his matches. You followed him all over Europe.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve become an unpaid roadie for a wrestling promotion to be close to him. I’m not sure what the right word is, exactly.”

 _”Inspired,”_ Tim burst out. “You don’t know--I was there in the crowd that night his parents--I couldn’t believe it. But he didn’t quit. He didn’t give up. He became Robin, and then Nightwing, and I wanted to be like him _so much._ And you--you were always the cool one, the distant one, but I could tell, I could _tell_ how much you cared, how passionate you were about it all. And then lately--” He shrugged. “I hoped Dick would go back to being Robin, but I guess that’s no good.”

Bruce shook his head. 

“Mr. Wayne--” Tim leaned close, his eyes intense. “Will you come with me tonight? I want to show you something.” He glanced at Clark, who was trying to look like he wasn’t hovering. “You can come too.”

Clark sighed, wishing in some ways that he wasn’t so transparent. “How about it, Bruce?”

After a moment, Bruce shrugged. “Why not?”

It wasn’t enthusiasm, but for now it would do.

* * *

It was a high school gymnasium, the ring surrounded by three rows of folding chairs. A corner in the back was screened off to serve as an impromptu changing area, with a curtain emblazoned with the Japanese character for “sky” on it. _”’Sora’_ \--it’s Japanese for ‘sky’ and it sounds kind of like ‘soar,’ get it?” Tim explained. 

Bruce looked dubious.

The ring announcer was calling out the next two combatants: Chlorophyll Kid versus the Condiment King. The costumes were makeshift, clearly cobbled together from whatever the wrestlers could manage; the entrance music played on someone’s iPod. As Chlorophyll Kid emerged from the staging area in the back, one of his thorny arms got caught on the curtain and the entire set of screens wobbled, sagging, and had to be hastily put back up by the cast. The crowd laughed and cheered as the crew managed to get it back up, the two wrestlers emoting surprise from the ring.

The bell rang and the match started.

Both wrestlers were athletic but too small to ever make it as full-time professionals. They had technical skill but were simply too weedy and short. What they _did_ have, Clark realized as he watched, were a nearly vaudevillian sense of comedic timing and a skill for playing off the audience. They bounced off the ropes, caromed off each other, stopped to do slapstick routines in the middle of moves--with such a small crowd, their voices could carry easily, and so everyone could hear their quips, which seemed to consist largely of a stream of puns about Condiment King “relishing his victory” or Chlorophyll Kid being “green with envy.” The audience groaned and cheered, and when the wrestlers hit a legitimately dangerous spot they stamped their feet and came up with impromptu chants.

“So what’s the moral lesson here?” Bruce said to Tim as the Kid pinned the King for the three-count and did a quick victory dance in the middle of the ring to the thunderous applause of a full fifty or so people. “I should be working someplace like this instead of DCW? This is where the ‘real fans’ are?”

“Oh, come on,” snapped Tim. He pointed at one kid in the front row, no more than ten, beaming at Night Girl as she stopped to shake hands on her way to the ring. “She’s wearing a Poison Ivy shirt.” He turned to two kids sitting nearby: “Who’s your favorite DCW wrestler?”

They didn’t hesitate: “Green Lantern!” they both chorused.

“But _he_ likes John Stewart and _I_ like Hal Jordan,” one of them announced, causing a spirited disagreement to break out.

“They’re the same fans, Bruce,” said Tim. “The ones who like fun gimmicks and root for the good guys to win--they’re still there in the audience too. They’re not all cheering for the villains.”

Bruce looked at the ring, where Night Girl and Infectious Lass were trading barbs and suplexes. “They’re ridiculous,” he said. But he didn’t sound disdainful. He sounded almost--wistful.

“It’s _fun_ ,” said Tim. “Wrestling _is_ ridiculous, and it’s fun.” He gestured at Chlorophyll Kid, emerging from the back in civilian clothes. “Ralph, c’mere.”

Ralph wandered over. “Hey, Tim. What are you--” He broke off as he took in Bruce and Clark, his jaw dropping slowly open. “Wha…”

“Can you put these two on the bill?” said Tim. 

“Can I--damn straight I can!”

“Gosh,” said Clark as Tim hustled them toward the ramshackle changing area, “We’re under contract to the DCW, I don’t think Luthor would--”

“--if we don’t get paid, and we don’t use the gimmicks he has a trademark on, he can’t do much,” said Bruce. There was a calculating gleam in his eye as he looked at Tim. “Why do I suspect you’ve got some costumes we can use here?” 

Tim looked innocent. 

“You’re a schemer after my own heart,” Bruce said with grudging respect.

* * *

“Ladies and Gentlemen, children of all ages!” Tim was in the center of the ring, gesturing to the crowd. “We have one more match for you tonight, not previously on the card--one I think you’re going to like!” Rubber-tipped chair legs squeaked on parquet flooring as the audience, which had been rising to go, sat back down. Tim gestured broadly. “Hailing from Smallville, Kansas, he is...The Hayseed!”

Clark didn’t have time to even roll his eyes before he had to hurry out from behind the curtain and down to the ring. He was fighting barefooted, in the overalls he had once scorned. Even the battered straw hat on his head felt pleasantly familiar. 

The crowd laughed appreciatively and applauded as he made his way to the ring, stopping to shake hands with some of the children on the way. They beamed at him, and he smiled back, reveling in being able to. A couple of the parents in the crowd gave him rather wide-eyed looks, but he wasn’t sure if they recognized the Kryptonian back in his country clothes.

He vaulted into the ring, almost tripping, and took the mic from Tim. “Aw shucks,” he said, “It’s a pleasure to be here tonight. Thanks for having me!”

Tim grinned at him as he took back the mic, then addressed the audience once more: “And his opponent, hailing from parts unknown, the--uh--the Rich and Handsome Stranger!”

The crowd booed and hissed as Bruce made his way to the ring, nose in the air, clad in a preposterous green velvet smoking gown. _”Obviously_ I have better places to be than here tonight,” Bruce announced with a languid wave. “I’m only here because young Mr. Drake pleaded with me to come along and show you what _real_ wrestling looked like.”

Clark gestured, and a crew member handed him another mic. “Say now, Rich and Handsome Stranger,” he said, smiling at Bruce as the audience booed. “Don’t you think that’s just a little unsporting?”

“Unsport--as if this is a sport!” Bruce glared out at the people who were stamping their feet and giving him vehement thumbs down gestures. “This isn’t a _sport_ \--” For a second, Clark felt a stab of panic that Bruce was going to break kayfabe and talk about how it was all rigged and fake, but he rallied and went on: “This is just two guys pummeling each other in a ring. You just want to see me make a fool out of this guy, or see him beating me to a pulp. Is that what you want, you losers?” he called to the crowd, “You want to see me get beaten up by the Hayseed?”

The crowd, it seemed, very much wanted to see the Hayseed beat the Rich and Handsome Stranger.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Stranger,” said Clark, “But I cannot allow you to impuggin the noble art of wrestling.”

“Impuggin--” For a second, Bruce almost smiled, then he actually slapped his forehead. “It’s _impugn_ , you cretin.”

“Let’s have a good clean fight,” Tim said with an uneasy look at the Rich and Handsome Stranger. 

“Let’s,” agreed the Hayseed, holding out his hand.

The Rich and Handsome Stranger looked at the outstretched hand. Then he looked around the gymnasium at the fans. Then back at the hand.

Then he stepped forward to treacherously throw the Hayseed into a hip toss, Tim waved frantically to have the bell rung, and the match was on.

* * *

Five minutes into the match, Clark knew something wasn’t going right. Oh, everything was physically great: he and Bruce were doing some intricate moves, some excellent high-flying spots. But Bruce would finish a spot and then move directly into the next one, like he was checking off a list of required moves. An Irish whip, and then straight to the turnbuckle for a diving elbow drop. It was an impressive encyclopedia of moves, and the audience was duly impressed.

But there was no heart in it. 

The crowd’s appreciation was purely cerebral, entirely intellectual. Like watching Picasso skillfully execute a paint-by-numbers set. It was polite, abstract. Unsatisfying.

He could tell Bruce felt it too: there was an increasing frustration to his motions, a tension beyond that of the moves, like he was hitting a mental wall and couldn’t get past it. 

“What’s the matter, Stranger?” Clark yelled in his best Hayseed voice. “Stop playing around and really fight me!” He delivered a flying clothesline that left Bruce flat on his back on the mat and pinned him. 

The referee started counting.

Clark heard Bruce murmur “I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t going to bother to break the pin.

Just before the ref could say “three,” Clark pushed himself away from Bruce and lurched to his feet. “Get up!” His voice was shaking. _”Get up and fight!”_

He saw in Bruce’s face that he heard the unspoken words: _Don’t give up. Don’t let it end. Stay with me._

Bruce staggered to his feet. “What do you want from me?” he said, his voice hoarse. The audience was very quiet.

“I don’t--” Clark’s throat closed up for a moment. “I don’t want anything from you. This is what we are: a hayseed and a rich and handsome stranger. I’m just a simple country boy who believes in the goodness of people and the value of an honest day’s work. That’s what I’m fighting for,” he said, thumping his chest. “What do _you_ believe in, god da--I mean, gosh darnit? What are you fighting for?”

Bruce stared at him. 

A voice called from the audience, bouncing off the cinderblock gymnasium walls: _”Kick his ass, Hayseed!”_

Laughter, applause, good-natured hoots rang out.

Bruce shook his head, his mouth twisted in something between a smile and a sob. “You have only the loosest grip on reality, you know that?” he yelled at the audience.

 _”Yeah!”_ they yelled back at him, all sixty strong of them. A little girl started giggling, and the sound skittered around the gymnasium, impossible to stifle or resist.

“All right,” said Bruce, looking out at them. He looked at Clark. “All right,” he said again. “I believe…” He stopped, looked down at the ring. “I believe in my right to make this mean whatever I want it to mean,” he said, almost to himself. 

Then he raised his head and swung away from Clark, sweeping a hand out in an extravagant gesture to take in the whole audience. “I believe this is about _me!_ ” he cried. “They say I’m selfish, that I’m self-destructive, that I should give it up and go home and eat caviar, but I say no! They say I’m a narcissist, and I say--hell yeah!” The crowd was responding to the fervor in his voice, forgetting he was a heel, cheering his “hell yeah” as if they couldn’t help themselves. “And I don’t care what _any_ of you think about whether I’m right or wrong, crazy or sane--I’m going to do what I’ve chosen to do with my life, and that’s drive fast cars, date beautiful people, and kick ass!” 

There has never been a wrestling audience alive that didn’t cheer the idea of kicking ass, and this one was no exception, but he ignored their applause to swivel and point directly at Clark.

Bruce winked.

“Prepare yourself for the Revenge of the One Percent!” the Rich and Handsome Stranger cried, and launched himself at the Hayseed.

It was different right away. Bruce stopped, took the time to mug for the crowd, to play up the mannerisms, to have some fun. “Hey! Your shoelaces are untied!” he called to the Hayseed. When the Hayseed, looked down at his bare feet, he punched him as the audience booed and laughed. The big moves were still big and audience loved them, but he wasn’t just moving from one to the next. He was _living_ in the moments between the moves as well, playing off Clark, building the rhythm of the match. Clark caught a glimpse of Tim’s delighted face as he was slingshotted off the ropes, ducking under the Stranger’s fist and bouncing off the far ropes.

He stopped dead before he could reach the Stranger’s outstretched arm for the clothesline. “Hey, Rich and Handsome Stranger, your shoes are untied!”

The Stranger snorted. “As if I’m going to fall for that one, you--” He took a step forward and tripped over his shoelaces, falling flat on his face.

Clark hooked his leg. “Take it home?” he said under his breath as the crowd crowed in delight at the villain’s comeuppance.

“One more hurricanrana,” murmured Bruce. He threw Clark off and staggered upright, clearly still dazed as Clark climbed the turnbuckle and jumped forward into a perfect hurricanrana. Bruce caught him lightly out of the air as he locked his legs around Bruce’s neck, pivoting him around so he pulled the Stranger down into a thunderous throw.

There was no getting up from that: Clark covered him as the referee counted, but the Rich and Handsome Stranger lay spread-eagled in the mat, unmoving. The crowd cheered and stamped, and Clark saw a smile on Bruce’s “unconscious” face as the referee raised the Hayseed’s hand in triumph.

* * *

Tim shifted uneasily in the back seat, headlights and streetlights washing over him as Bruce drove in silence. He started to say something, then stopped as Clark gave him a warning look into the rearview mirror. 

They drove on, the only sounds the whine of the car’s gears and the nearly-audible whir of Bruce’s thoughts.

“They love love,” Bruce said suddenly out of nowhere, more to himself than to Tim or Clark. “The audience. They can tell who loves their gimmick, and they respond to that. Jason loved fighting, but he didn’t love being Robin. Joker loves his gimmick.” A long silence. “Jason could never just enjoy himself, he was always so aware of whether he was copying Dick, whether he was breaking the mold. He could never be himself. He could never...love it.”

He sighed then, a long, slow exhalation, as if he were letting something go.

“I think I understand,” he whispered.

* * *

He didn’t say much after that; he drove them back to the hotel and thanked Tim absently, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Is he...okay?” Tim asked Clark under his breath.

“I think he might be,” Clark said.

And it got better--not immediately, and not without setbacks. There were days when Bruce was sunk in gloom, matches when despair seemed more the enemy than the Kryptonian. But there were also matches full of joy, times when the Dark Knight seemed more full of life than ever before as he fought his enemies to a standstill. And the audience responded: more and more ecstatic reaction when he emerged from the shadows, more rafter-rattling approval for his gruff promos and dramatic finishing moves. Joy feeding on joy, love feeding on love. Bruce seemed almost unaware that he had become the most popular wrestler in the promotion, focused with laser intensity on improving his mic skills, on designing the best possible matches. He was more demanding and difficult to work with than ever, but everyone admitted it was better than before.

“Besides,” said Waylon, “Most of his matches are with Kent anyway, so the rest of us don’t have to put up with him often.”

And everyone--including Clark--agreed this was an ideal situation.

Bruce got Tim a regular job with the lighting crew and started training him in some basic wrestling moves. “I don’t know,” Tim said to Clark when asked if he’d ever want to be a wrestler. “It’s not an easy life, out there in the spotlight. But who knows. I...I might have some costume ideas,” he said, and blushed slightly.

* * *

“Love,” Bruce had said that night after his match as the Rich and Handsome Stranger, his body twined with Clark’s, comfortable and heavy, slicked with sweat. “If someone had told me fifteen years ago that love was the answer, I would have laughed at them. Or punched them. Ludicrous answer. Ridiculous answer.” 

Clark kissed his neck, feeling the pulse still thrumming there, the echoes of orgasm still resonating. “If love is the answer, what’s the question?”

A silence so long Clark thought he had fallen asleep. 

“Why bother?” whispered Bruce, and it took Clark a moment to realize that was his response.

* * *

They were good days, low on pressure and high on fun. The Kryptonian gimmick was still annoying, but it was selling merchandise and Luthor refused to change it. At least Milton Fine was having fun as Brainiac, Clark consoled himself.

And then things changed.

“Hey,” said Clark, then did a double-take at the expression on Bruce’s face as he dropped onto the common room couch. “Jeez, what’s wrong, what did Luthor say to you?” Clark hadn’t gotten nervous about Bruce being called in to talk with Luthor--after all, what could Luthor have to fault him with? The Dark Knight was hot, Bruce was burning down the ring every night, even the most jaded Internet trolls had to admit their matches were “predictably competent” (Bruce had laughed for a solid hour after reading that comment and announced he was putting “predictably competent “ on his Jumbotron display from now on). So why did Bruce look like he’d been punched in the solar plexus?

“Clark,” said Bruce, then stopped, swallowed, and tried again.

“Clark, he’s decided to make the Dark Knight the heavyweight champion.”


	39. Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce throws himself into his role as the DCW Champion, while rumors start to circulate about Clark Kent's love life, to his dismay.

_ It’s probably not too much to say that at times [Rick Rude] seemed to prefer grappling with other underdressed men to any sort of meaningful female embrace. He handled the women offered to him with disregard; only his rivals were able to affect Rude on a primal, emotional level. Conspicuously, the kiss he would lay on female fans and the reverse neckbreaker with which he dispatched his opponents were both called the “Rude Awakening.” --David Shoemaker _

“I told Luthor that I could understand if it was time to hand the belt on, but I wanted to turn it over to someone I could respect,” said John Stewart, sticking his hand out.

Bruce still looked rather dazed. “Thank you,” he said, shaking Stewart’s hand.

“Though _technically_ I’m going to lose the belt to Joker. But he’s only going to hold it for a couple of days. And he’s going to cheat, so it doesn’t really count.”

“It totally counts!” sang out Joker from a corner.

“Don’t it bother you that you gotta lose it right away?” Harley asked him, looking up from her dog-eared copy of _Serial Killers: The Methods and Madness of Monsters_. Pamela Isley was draped across her lap reading _Gaia’s Garden: A Guide to Home-Scale Permaculture._

“Nonsense, my dear,” said Napier. “What does a made-up accolade mean to an artist such as myself? I live only for the reaction of the audience.” Napier was as disturbing and over-the-top as ever since Jason’s “death,” and had used that storyline to great effect, but he had quietly retired Mr. Crowbar. He claimed it was because people were paying more attention to the prop than to him, but Clark suspected it also just wasn’t as much fun anymore. Yet there was a delighted gleam in his eye as he turned to Bruce: "Let's do something fun for our match! You could finally get revenge for your poor broken bird, right?"

Soon he and Bruce were deep in conversation about how best to get the Dark Knight the belt, and Clark wandered off, suppressing a pang of familiar jealousy. No wrestler worked exclusively with another, but every time Bruce got absorbed in a match other than with the Kryptonian, Clark ended up wrestling with an uncomfortable possessive feeling. And now that the Dark Knight was going to be the belt holder...

"That's going to happen a lot more often." Diana's voice was sympathetic as she followed Clark's gaze. "The champion has to be in more matches with more varied opponents, after all."

"I know that," Clark said, shrugging. He met Diana's eyes. "Does it show?"

Diana smiled at him and slugged his shoulder. "Let's go get some coffee."

* * *

"Luthor hasn't forgiven either of you for the Zucco affair, you know." Diana took a sip of her drink and grimaced, muttering something about weak American coffee.

"Giving Bruce the most prestigious title in the business is an odd way of punishing him."

"Luthor's main focus is his business. The Dark Knight is his best money-maker right now, he'd be mad not to take advantage of that. But," she added, "Don't think he doesn't gain some pleasure from knowing he's cutting back on your ability to work together. And there's a lot of pressure involved in holding the title. Bruce will be working harder than ever--yes, he'll love it," she said before Clark could say anything, "But the people who care about him will have to make sure he doesn't wear himself out completely." Diana took another sip and sighed. "Someday we will visit Paradise Island and I will introduce you to _real_ coffee," she said wistfully.

* * *

"It's really mine," Bruce said with some wonder, holding up the belt to the light. It was a garish monstrosity, a huge disc of gold with a stylized "DC" engraved on it, surrounded by filigree and etched curlicues. It looked entirely out of place in the bland beige living room of his Metropolis apartment--though it was no longer quite so bland or so beige, Clark had to admit. At his urging, Bruce had slowly added some distinctive touches to the featureless box: the action figures on the mantel; the promotional poster from the "Joker's Wild" pay-per-view designed to look like a giant playing card; the flower vase shaped like an oversized penny they had found at a random yard sale and brought home like a trophy. Bruce had even added a hilariously large stuffed Tyrannosaurus Rex from a webcomic he loved without any prompting from Clark.

Everything was outsized, larger than life, and a bit off-kilter, rather like its occupant, and Clark loved spending time there.

"It was a great match," Clark said. "That final moonsault to take out Joker was pure poetry."

"The crowd was really into it," said Bruce, still turning the belt in his hands. "I was proud of it. It was a good match to win the championship with." He touched the gold lightly. "This belt," he murmured. "I saw the match where Wildcat lost this belt to Eclipso. My parents took me."

Clark raised an eyebrow but held his tongue--not foster-father, but parents. Bruce never spoke of his life before Alfred took him in.

"Eclipso hit Grant with the belt when he got it, and it cut his head," Bruce went on, his voice distant. "The blood stained his pale hair. I remember how bright it was. It seemed unreal. It was so unfair that there was almost a...beauty to it all. To his suffering. More than anything, I wanted to win this belt back and make it all right again." He traced one filigree with his index finger, turning and swooping. "And then I went out into the night with my parents."

Clark waited in silence, hardly daring to breathe loudly, but Bruce didn't say anything more. After a moment, he looked up from the hunk of metal and leather in his hands and smiled at Clark. "It's heavier than I imagined." He held it out. "Come here and see."

Clark drew close and took it from him, feeling the weight of it. He reached out and buckled it around Bruce's waist, leaning in to kiss him as he did. "Let's see how you look wearing nothing but the belt," he murmured, and felt Bruce chuckle as he pulled his t-shirt off.

The metal was cold to the touch. Clark breathed across it, watching his breath mist the gold, and felt Bruce shiver. He let his fingers skitter across the huge shining disc and slip to Bruce's pants, undoing the fly and sliding them down until indeed Bruce lay on the couch clad in nothing but the golden belt that covered most of his lower torso.

"I look ridiculous," he complained.

Clark undressed himself and slid onto the couch next to him, pressing close, feeling the metal warming between their bodies, savoring the different kinds of hardness against him. "You look magnificent."

The whorls of raised metal stamped marks on Clark's flesh, fragments of letters and shapes chiseled onto his skin. "They'll fade," Bruce reassured him later, kissing a curved shadow on Clark's hipbone.

Clark traced the marks absently with a finger as they drifted together toward sleep, feeling the echo and the imprint of Bruce's body against his. If they had collided harder, he thought dreamily, if he had crushed Bruce to him, tomorrow there would be bruises there in the shape of Bruce's trophy, proof of their passion written on his body for all to see.

He fell asleep still unsure if it was anxiety or desire that the image aroused in him.

* * *

Diana's words about the championship title proved prophetic: Bruce was the hardest worker in the business, and he tapped on reserves of determination and stamina once he was champion. His matches were better than ever, whether he was fighting the Joker, teaming up with Nightwing for a tag team, or cutting promos about vengeance and the night.

He had less time to spend with Clark, and fewer matches against the Kryptonian, but he seemed so _alive_ that Clark couldn't even bring himself to resent it. After the long emptiness in the wake of Jason's departure, Clark took a keen pleasure in watching Bruce light up while planning a match, in feeling his energy when they clashed in the ring--or in bed. Every moment they had together was precious, and Clark savored every one.

That they were fewer meant more time spent with other workers: Dick, Jimmy, Selina. And, more and more, Diana. She told him stories of her siblings and life on the little Greek island where she grew up; they went to museums together on their days off; their morning coffee became something of a ritual. "I had many sisters growing up, but no brothers," she said one day with a look that was almost shy. "When I imagined what a brother would be like, I imagined someone like you."

"I couldn't ask for a better sister," he said in return.

And so it came as something of a shock when one day Pamela Isley waved an iPad in his face while he was working out on the weight machine. "Ohhh," she cooed. "The lovebirds' secret is out!"

Startled, Clark let his weights crash down and grabbed the iPad. But the photo on the front page of huge wrestling dirt sheet wasn't him and Bruce, but him and Diana laughing together at their favorite Baltimore coffee shop. _Caught Canoodling!_ cried the headline.

"You--you know this isn't true, right?" Clark stammered to Luthor a few hours later.

"Clark and I are good friends and not a thing else," said Diana. Her voice was much more confident than Clark's, but her Mediterranean accent was slightly more pronounced, as it sometimes became when she was nervous or angry.

"I am aware of that," said Luthor, putting the iPad back down on his desk. The booker next to him picked it up and started scrolling through the story. "Believe it or not, very few romantic entanglements escape my notice in my own company. And as long as they don't interfere with work, I have no particular problem with them," he added, his expression utterly bland as he met Clark's eyes.

"Boy, we could do a great storyline with this," said the booker holding the iPad. "We could use this as a springboard for a whole long arc. I've always thought the Kryptonian and Wonder Woman would make a great couple, after all: surely only an Amazon is strong enough to satisfy him, right? Could he ever be satisfied with a mere mortal?"

Luthor steepled his fingers and spoke to the booker without taking his eyes from Clark: "Go on, Geoff."

"Well, I'm imagining an angle where the Kryptonian becomes obsessed with Wonder Woman--because he doesn't speak, he can send Brainiac to woo her in his stead, that would be pretty hilarious. It could end with him kidnapping her and forcing her to marry him in the middle of the ring in some kind of dark Kryptonian ritual. Awesome, huh?"

"An intriguing proposal," said Diana. Her accent was notably more pronounced now. "Might I suggest a slight variation on that? Perhaps we could have someone--say, a booker--make this very suggestion in the middle of the ring. Then someone--say, me--could arrive and hit him with a Slamazon--multiple times--for such a presumptuous and imbecilic idea." She tilted her head to the side as if considering. "It risks breaking kayfabe, but I prefer it to the former."

Luthor was smiling very slightly as he watched Clark's face. "No, Geoff," he said to the booker, who now had beads of sweat on his forehead, "I think we'll skip that storyline. But thank you for the description, I found it...very entertaining." He waved a hand at Clark and Diana, dismissing them. "I have no intention of giving any credibility to some dirt sheet's gossip. Get back to putting on a show."

* * *

"It could be useful," Bruce said thoughtfully after he came back late from training Tim to their shared hotel room and heard Clark's aggrieved summary of the day.

_"Useful?_ A rumor that Diana and I are an item?"

"Sure." Bruce did a belly-flop onto the bed; he'd taken a shower at the gym and his still-damp hair fell into his eyes slightly. "Distracts from you and I, after all. And be honest, the wedding idea was pretty hilarious. It could have ended with Wonder Woman fighting the Kryptonian off, after all--we really should have more mixed-sex bouts, and Diana's more than up to it."

"Using Diana as a shield--that's just cowardly," Clark blurted out. His stomach felt tight somehow, and his heart was pounding as if he'd just finished a workout.

"Pragmatic," Bruce countered.

"And I don't want to marry Diana, not even in kayfabe! I don't want to marry anyone but--"

"But?" Bruce prompted politely when Clark didn't finish the sentence, rummaging under the pillows. "Have you seen the television remote? It's my turn to control it tonight and I'm not wasting the opportunity."

"But...especially not Diana," Clark finished weakly, fishing the remote out of a pile of dirty socks next to the bed and handing it to him.

Bruce grabbed it and turned on the tv to the Weather Channel, honing in as he usually did on some story about a natural disaster (he found sports "tedious" and anything fictional "unsatisfying"). He lay down, wrapping his legs around Clark's waist, and Clark tried to watch along.

But his heart was hammering and his mouth was dry. _I don't want to marry anyone but you_ still rang in his mind, so clearly that he could hardly believe Bruce couldn't hear it. Astonishing thought, impossible thought!

Yet it was true, he realized. He had never thought it before, and yet here it was, full-blown and undeniable. Shopping at Target, bickering over the remote, complaining about the cable bill or reading each other's favorite childhood books--he wanted all of it with Bruce, all of the banal little things that make up a life together, and he wanted them forever.

And he didn't even know how to say that to Bruce now, and it was entirely his own fault: he had defined their relationship as casual when it began, had shut down every attempt, no matter how tentative, by Bruce to let him in further. _I've never even told him I loved him,_ Clark realized like a punch to the solar plexus. Bruce had never seemed to need those kinds of declarations, had always seemed confident and comfortable with what they had, and Clark had taken advantage of that to stay safe.

_Safe from what?_ As a hurricane lashed the Bahamas on the little television screen, Clark had to admit he had no idea. What was he afraid would change if he let their relationship progress, if he opened his heart more fully to Bruce--if he finally met his family, saw where he grew up? Why did the thought unnerve him so deeply? He had no idea what kind of life Bruce came from, but surely it wasn't _that_ different from his own, after all.

He took a deep breath, watching the tempest-churned waves explode on the rocks, and tried to calm himself down. He hadn't made any irrevocable mistakes. They had a life together already, he reminded himself. If--when--they moved it to another level, it would mean possibly coming out to more people, dealing with the repercussions. It would add a further burden to Bruce at a time when he was already working himself to exhaustion as the champion. Things were going to change-- _he_ was going to change--but there was no need to rush. They had plenty of time.

"That's right," said Bruce, sitting up in bed as the show cut to a commercial. "I forgot to mention, I've got some good news."

He punched Clark lightly on the shoulder.

"Remember Bane, from Santa Prisca? Well, he's coming to the States and he suggests we do a big angle about him challenging me, culminating in a rematch in Gotham!"

He grinned and grabbed Clark, wrestling him to the bed as if he couldn't contain his enthusiasm.

"It'll be a great story, don't you think?"


	40. Running the Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce prepares for the first of his two big matches against Bane, but his friends fear he may be spreading himself too thin...

_ I’m talking about the myth of the pioneer, the frontiersman, the cowboy, the lone ranger, the avenging comic-book superhero, able to change form in an instant, the myth of the self-made man, the man-on-the-make, the gambler, the gangster, and the gunslinger. What all of these mythopoeic figures of pop culture have in common is a deeply held American belief in rebirth, no matter how dangerous. --Thomas Hackett _

Clark Kent presses the pause button. _There._ He skips back ten seconds, watches, presses pause again. _There._ Rewind once more. The figures on the screen go through their inexorable motions again, beyond regret, beyond redemption. _There._

Alone in his hotel room, Clark watches the last ten seconds before the world fell apart again. 

And again. 

And again.

* * *

On the Jumbotron, a promotional package was running, talking about the great matches of the Dark Knight's history. "All around the world," intoned Clark Kent's solemn voice, "The Dark Knight has had victory after victory. Only once, on the tiny island of Santa Prisca--" Grainy footage started to run, as if from a hidden camera: Bane lifted the Dark Knight up and slammed him across his knee. "--Did the Dark Knight taste utter defeat. But beyond this one foe, none has proven able to stand for long against the champion, the--"

The video cut off abruptly in a crackle of static, leaving the auditorium plunged into darkness. The crowd murmured uneasily.

And then a low, ominous chuckle echoed through the blackness.

A ripple ran through the Miami crowd as the Jumbotron flickered to life again to reveal Bane's masked face, his low and deliberate chuckling laugh resonating through the auditorium. 

"So, Dark Knight, we meet again." 

In the middle of the ring, championship belt slung over his shoulder, the Dark Knight looked up at the visage of Bane and said nothing.

"When last we met in Santa Prisca, I beat you and sent you home like a dog with its tail between its legs. But I see that you have achieved some middling success in your home country. Does it gall you to know that I defeated you? Would you like a chance to prove your mettle against me once more? Well." The mask hid his expression, but there was a motion that might have indicated a smile. "I shall be in Gotham, your home town, in one month. I challenge you to face me."

"It would be my pleasure," the Dark Knight announced.

Bane had to wait until the delirious cheering died down, but he showed no sign of impatience. "But I do not believe that you are strong enough, worthy enough to face me. You must prove yourself, first. Fight three of the warriors of the DCW of my choice that night. If you survive the encounters, I shall meet you in a match with seconds of our choosing. I shall not need the help, but I suspect you will, and I am, after all, a merciful man." His voice was cold and pitiless.

"You must think me a fool, to fight a well-rested foe after three battles."

"You are already a fool, for daring to meet me in the ring." Bane shrugged. "But I am willing to run my own gauntlet, against any three of your pitiful so-called 'wrestlers' that you may choose."

"And if you lose?"

Bane managed to emote surprise through the mask. "I had not considered that possibility. Very well. If one of your number manages to defeat me, they shall become my second in the tag team match. Fair?"

"Fair enough."

"If you manage to defeat me with assistance, perhaps I shall consider facing you one on one in the ring at No Man's Land," he said, naming the next big pay-per-view. "But I warn you that if I do--" That dark chuckle again, "I shall break you, and bear home that pretty gold belt of yours to hang on my wall."

The symbol of the DCW to be taken away! The crowd booed lustily as the feed cut off. The challenge was issued. Now the wrestlers for the gauntlet and the seconds for the tag team match had to be decided.

Commenters on the message boards agreed: it was shaping up to be one of the most exciting pay-per-views in a long time.

* * *

Few of the passers-by gave more than a curious glance to the hugely muscular man in a full _luchador_ mask sitting at a sidewalk cafe: the jaded denizens of New York City had seen weirder. Small children who did stop to gape earned themselves a mock-scary growl and then a tousled head. “I do not remove my mask on foreign soil,” Bane had said when Dick had suggested it. As a result, it was Dick, Bruce, and Clark who had to be incognito: Dick and Clark were wearing baseball caps pulled low over their faces, but Bruce had gone further and added a small, rakish mustache and was chewing on a matchstick.

“Three matches?” Clark frowned. “That’s a heavy schedule.”

Bruce made a dismissive noise. "The first one will be a short match against Firefly, the second a little longer against Zsasz. The third will be against Two-Face, and that'll be longer: gotta sell that the Dark Knight is at the end of his rope, utterly exhausted."

"OK," said Dick, "so who's facing Bane in his gauntlet?"

“My first opponent shall be this Jean Paul Valley who goes by Azrael. He is a man after my own heart and it is a shame I must defeat him so quickly. I have asked your Wonder Woman to be my third and final opponent, and she said it would be her pleasure," Bane said.

"A cross-sex match?" Dick sounded impressed. "We've never been able to convince Luthor to do much with those. But you and Diana should put on a good show."

Bane nodded solemnly. "She is a true warrior. And the middle opponent, the one I will lose to and be forced to team up with in the tag team match, is the Kryptonian."

"It makes perfect sense," said Bruce as Clark blinked in surprise. "The Dark Knight gets to choose Bane's opponents, so on the whole he's going to pick allies like Nightwing or Wonder Woman. But he knows the Kryptonian is a juggernaut, so it makes sense to put him up against Bane even though they're enemies."

"You are the key to the setup," Bane said. "The wild card, as you say in English. I lose to you in the second match due to interference by one of my well-meaning lackeys. And then in the tag team match you shall turn on me and cost me the win, setting up the final confrontation between Bane and the Dark Knight at No Man's Land.

“Wait,” said Clark, “If I backstab Bane, doesn’t that mean I--”

“--will be doing a face turn? Not _necessarily_ ,” said Bruce. He was grinning. “I mean, the Kryptonian has his own agenda, right? He can always decide that teaming up with a puny mortal like Bane--no offense,” he added to Bane.

“None taken,” Bane said calmly.

“--He can decide that teaming up with a puny mortal is beneath him, of course. _But_ I’m hoping we can parlay that into a face turn eventually, yes.”

“That would be different,” said Clark, keeping his voice as cool as possible. He didn’t want to look too excited about the possibility of a face turn in front of Bane: after all, most wrestlers wanted to play heels, who were considered to have a wider range of character options. “Faces are _dull_ ,” Napier had complained once. “You just have to be good, good, _good_ all the time. No variety.”

Clark disagreed: he thought his take on being a face could be different from Hal Jordan’s Green Lantern, who was different in turn from Diana's Wonder Woman. But maybe such nuances were lost on the stage, after all. Maybe--

“All _right_!” said Dick Grayson, punching the air. “Clark would be the best babyface _ever_!”

From just about anyone else, that could well have been a sarcastic statement to be taken as an insult. From Dick Grayson, though…

Bruce was smiling at Dick. “He would indeed,” he said.

“You are strange people,” announced Bane, picking up a cruller and taking a bite. “But I like you.”

* * *

“Yeah yeah, I know the routine,” said Milton Fine, stifling a yawn. “Am I going to get to do anything but make pronouncements for you this match? I can do that in my sleep by now.”

“Well, I’m going to turn on Bane at the end,” said Clark.

“Really?” Fine perked up a bit. “That could be interesting.”

“So I need you to talk a bit about how the Kryptonian doesn’t deign to work with lower life forms. If you feel up to it, Bane suggested he give you a chokeslam at the end.”

Fine beamed. “Fantastic! It’s about time I had a chance to take a bump. Seriously, Kent, I think I’ve got so much more in me than just to be the mouthpiece to a monster. I know everyone thinks I’m crazy, but--”

Clark clapped him on the back. Milton Fine’s desire to stop being a manager and start being a wrestler was legendary; most other wrestlers considered him delusional, but Clark had a feeling they were wrong. “I think you can do it. I’ve noticed you’ve been working out.”

“You have?” Fine practically glowed.

“I’m not sure a good word from me would mean much to Luthor, but if they ever break us up I’ll put in a word for you.”

“That’s really great of you,” said Fine, beaming. “I really think I could get more out of this Brainiac gimmick than just being a sideshow swindler, you know?” He shook his head. “It’s so strange how the Kryptonian is totally silent, but you inspire us all backstage. Thanks.”

And then he walked off, leaving Clark stunned into true speechlessness for a time.

* * *

“What the hell do you mean, I’m not ready?”

Bruce’s voice was an angry bark that turned a few heads in the nearly-empty gym, but Tim stood his ground. “I’ve been going over the recordings of your latest matches, and your reflexes are off,” he said. “You’re working yourself too hard. Tell him, guys.” 

He looked imploringly at Clark and Dick, and they both nodded reluctantly. “He’s right, Bruce,” said Dick. “You’ve been wrestling every show without a break, you’ve been training Tim, you’ve been doing all the extra promos and outside work that come from holding the belt--it’s taking a toll.”

“And you’re planning on wrestling _four_ matches at next week’s show?” Clark added.

“I _told_ you, the first three are--”

“--Not serious matches, I know.” Clark struggled to keep his voice level. “But they’re still _matches_ , and even thirty seconds in the ring takes something out of you. Wrestling Firefly, Zsasz, and Two-Face before you even reach Bane and the Kryptonian? It’s a recipe for disaster.”

“He must prove himself," Bane said, "As must I. You are not complaining about my three matches."

_Only because he doesn't know you and is unwilling to risk offending you,_ Clark thought, watching Tim's face.

"It will be a magnificent match," Bane announced. "Setting up an even better match with just the two of us, a match for the ages. I do not plan to return to the States again. This will be my crowning achievement in this land, a story to tell for generations."

"Bruce's schedule is a punishing one," Clark said. "If he's not at peak physical condition--"

“I _am_ at peak physical condition,” Bruce snarled. “A chance like this is never coming along again, I have to take it _now._ It’s a great story, and both matches are taking place in Gotham. The Dark Knight would never back down from a challenge to Gotham.”

“The Dark Knight is a _character_ ,” Tim blurted out. “You’re a real person, and you’re taking a stupid risk!”

Bruce’s face went closed, and Clark groaned inwardly, saw matching resignation on Dick’s face: they both knew that look, and it meant Bruce was never going to back down now. 

“Let’s go over the finish,” Bruce said, turning away from Tim. “So Nightwing tags the Dark Knight back in for the last time, the Dark Knight and Bane go at it for a while--we can improvise all that--and then Bane pulls the backbreaker move and gets ready to pin the Dark Knight. Now--” He held up a finger, “--I know no one ever kicks out of that move, so that’s part of why the Kryptonian is going to turn on you.”

“You are a considerate opponent,” Bane said, and Bruce sketched a small bow in his direction.

“As you prepare for the pin--maybe you taunt the crowd for a moment, they should be screaming for your blood by now--the Kryptonian can attack you from behind. If I know my crowd, they should pop like crazy for the Kryptonian then.”

Clark nodded. To hear a crowd pop for him again--! It had been so long since he was met with anything over than boos.

Bruce shot him a quick, sympathetic look, and Clark knew he was aware of exactly what Clark was thinking. “You’ll probably just have to ignore them, but maybe not for much longer.”

“So this is where I get to yell about the Kryptonian not teaming up with Terran scum?” Milton Fine, who had wandered off diplomatically when Tim began to argue with Bruce, reappeared behind Bane.

“Actually, we need you to distract the referee while this is going on,” Bruce said. “That way he doesn’t see the Kryptonian attack Bane and doesn’t stop the match. Half-conscious, the Dark Knight staggers over and pins the unconscious Bane for the win. _Then_ you can go into your ‘alien overlord’ routine until Bane rises up and chokeslams you in a fury.”

“Few not of Santa Prisca have had the honor of receiving a chokeslam from me,” Bane said to Fine, cracking his knuckles. “I hope you are up to it.”

Fine shrugged a little nervously. “Sure. No big deal.”

Bane chuckled darkly and Fine swallowed hard.

“Looks like a great match,” Bruce said briskly, still not looking at Tim. “Now I have to go over my match with Harvey. If you’ll excuse me…” 

“Thanks for trying, guys,” said Tim as Bruce strode off, his voice glum.

“Sometimes all we can do is try,” Dick said, clapping him on the back.

* * *

“Clark?” 

“Mmm?” He had thought Bruce was asleep at last, but his voice sounded alert and oddly nervous.

“Tomorrow night, the first match against Bane, in Gotham...Alfred said he’d be in the audience. He’s never come to a match of mine before. He--” Bruce broke off and Clark heard a small huff of a laugh. “He didn’t approve of my career choices.”

“Oh.” In the dark and silence, Clark took a deep breath, then said as casually as he could manage: “Maybe I could meet him after? If he’s not busy?”

A long leg hooked around his hip and dragged him close; he felt Bruce nuzzle at his neck. “He’d like that,” Bruce whispered. “And so would I.”

Clark held him close and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “You know I love you, right?” he said, but Bruce was already asleep, the muscles in his body going loose and limp, his breaths slow and regular against Clark’s skin.

* * *

“No, boss! I didn’t mean it! I swear!”

Bane had his henchman, Bird, by the collar and was hoisting him above the ring. _”You cost me the match, worm!”_ he thundered. “You meddling imbecile! How dare you presume that I needed assistance?”

“But he had you on the ropes, boss!” babbled Bird. And that Brainiac guy, he said you were doomed, and the Kryptonian was going to kill you, and I guess I just got carried away, because the next thing I knew I was climbing into the ring with that chair. I didn’t even see the ref looking at me, I swear!”

Bane growled, a low and feral sound that seemed to fill the hushed Gotham auditorium. Since the moment he had walked out onto the ramp to fight Nightwing the crowd had been uneasy, restless. As Bruce had predicted, when the Kryptonian was announced the winner they had cheered, but it was a nervous cheer: Bane was monster enough that the Kryptonian could only win by disqualification. What did this mean for the Dark Knight, exhausted and weary?

“I see,” Bane murmured, still holding Bird effortlessly in the air by one hand. “The little man, that Brainiac. He manipulated you. And now I must work with the Kryptonian against the Dark Knight. He is a clever one.”

“So it wasn’t my fault, right boss?”

“It was not your fault.” And with that Bane smashed Bird to the mat, limbs flopping. “You may continue to serve me.” He turned to the cameras, his masked face filling the Jumbotron. “And now I call on the last of the Dark Knight’s champions, this ‘Wonder Woman.’ Show yourself and fight me, warrior of the Amazons!”

The crowd roared in approval as Wonder Woman’s uplifting, disco-inflected theme music struck up and the Amazon herself stood at the top of the ramp, arms akimbo as fireworks went off around her.

* * *

“Sounds like a great match,” Clark said as he ruffled his hair into his reporter style for his interview.

“Of course it is,” said Bruce. “Diana always puts on the best show, and Bane won’t hold back with her a bit. It would be the highlight match of the night--if there wasn’t going to be one with you and me in it after.” He grinned at Clark. “Time to go out there and fight Two-Face,” he said cheerily, tossing his water bottle over. “Then get interviewed by Mr. Gloom and Doom.” He brushed a surreptitious kiss against his clenched knuckles and then mock-punched Clark in the mouth with it, a habit they’d gotten into over time while in crowded locker rooms and common rooms. Sometimes they just punched each other in the mouth. 

They knew what it meant.

* * *

“Dark Knight, you know that Bane has sworn to break you, strip you of your championship belt and bring it back to Santa Prisca?”

The Dark Knight nodded, acknowledging Clark Kent’s rather rhetorical question without speaking. He was breathing as if he had a stitch in his side: kayfabe or reality?

“You survived the challenge by Firefly--”

“--I defeated him in thirty seconds, Kent,” growled the Dark Knight. “That’s quite a bit more than _surviving._ ”

“But the match with Mr. Zsasz went on quite a bit longer, didn’t it? And he hit your ribs pretty hard with that Tally Mark punch.”

“I’m aware of that.” The Dark Knight put a hand to his side, his face contorting in a wince, quickly hidden. This Clark found reassuring: if he were truly in pain, Bruce would have never made such an obvious show of it.

“But you still went on to face your next challenger, Two-Face.”

“Harvey’s a tough opponent,” the Dark Knight admitted. “But I had to take him down, and I did.” A droplet of sweat trickled from under his cowl down the side of his face, and Clark frowned as he watched the cameras zoom in on it. Bruce’s physical control was always awe-inspiring, but surely even he couldn’t control his own sweat? How much of that labored breathing was acting, and how much of it was true exhaustion?

“And soon you’ll be facing Bane and the Kryptonian.”

“Not alone,” the Dark Knight pointed out. “Nightwing will be at my side. And I’m not sure the Kryptonian is really happy to be here,” he added with a brief almost-smile. “That might work in my favor.”

“Well,” said Clark. “Be careful out there tonight.” The Dark Knight started to turn away and Clark blurted out, “Hey.” 

Bruce turned around and met his eyes.

“Seriously,” said Clark, “Be careful, okay?”

The Dark Knight inclined his head, turned in a swirl of cape, and vanished backstage.

“There you have it, DCW universe,” Clark said to the camera, veiling his worry with a dramatically “worried” expression, “The Dark Knight and Nightwing versus Bane and the Kryptonian--coming up at the end of the night! Will the caped crusader win, or will he be broken by Bane?”

The red light on the camera went off and Clark handed his mic to Jimmy, heading off to change into his black ruffled spandex and and red contacts, preparing to crush his lover on live television. For once, he thought, it was almost a relief to not have to talk, to just be silent and threatening.

* * *

_There._

The recording is paused. The crowd is silent, frozen in time, their avid faces a blur behind the two figures, one lifted high above the head of the other.

The moment the world fell apart.

_There._


	41. Knightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tag team match between the Dark Knight and Nightwing versus Bane and the Kryptonian ends in disaster.

_ I wish I could’ve bottled that night to carry around in my pocket forever. Being in the wrestling business is like fighting in a war: Some of your unit make it and some of them don’t. It brings a tear to my eye to know that I’ll never enjoy a night like that with those guys ever again. --Chris Jericho _

The phone sits on the dresser, silent. No buzzes, no beeps. Clark Kent resists the urge to reach for it and check it anyway. Instead, he watches the match again. How many times now?

It doesn’t matter.

Watch it again. Freeze at the moment.

Watch it again.

* * *

The Kryptonian strode down the ramp to his ominous, eerie music, taking a moment to cast a stony glare at the crowd before he entered the ring. The usual booing faces gazed back at him, lost in the delight of hating him. But near the end of his scan, suddenly two incongruous faces caught his eye again as they had before his match against Bane: an elderly man in a formal black suit and ramrod-straight posture, sitting next to a woman of about the same age, her frowning face framed by silver hair. They seemed out of place and nervous, and Clark wanted to give them a reassuring smile, but the Kryptonian gimmick held him in iron shackles. He paused and scowled deliberately at them instead, and the man suddenly smiled up at him, a warm smile that took Clark entirely aback. That formally-dressed man _couldn’t_ be Alfred...could it?

The woman at his side continued to look more irritated than enraged, clearly not getting into the spirit of the match.

“And his tag team partner...hailing from the island of Santa Prisca--” Martial music blared as Bane stalked down the ramp, without acknowledging the boos and jeers on either side of him. “Bane!”

Bane climbed into the ring, locking eyes with the Kryptonian, who returned the gaze coldly. From the sidelines, Brainiac rubbed his hands and looked scheming; Bane spared him a contemptuous glance and he shrank back, cowed for a moment.

Nightwing came next, vaulting into the ring with his usual good humor, playing to the crowd, blowing kisses to all and sundry. He nodded at the Kryptonian warily, and beneath the Nightwing mask Clark saw Dick shoot him a look: _We can get him through this._

And then the lights went out and the Dark Knight descended from the ceiling into the ring to the effervescent adulation of the crowd.

He had his championship belt around his waist, and it caught the spotlight in dizzying gleams of gold as he swung into the ring. Clapping Nightwing on the back, he took off the belt and held it up in front of Bane for just a moment, almost tauntingly, then handed it over to the ring announcer to keep during the match.

The referee stepped forward between the two teams, running a hand through his thinning blond hair: Sandy Hawkins, former “Golden Boy” and valet for the more famous Wesley Dobbs. He hadn’t quite made it as a wrestler, but Luthor made sure he still had consistent work as a referee. “Let’s keep this a good clean fight,” he announced loudly: The Kryptonian raised a contemptuous lip and Bane ignored him entirely.

Each team went to their corner. The Dark Knight started off the legal man with no discussion, he and Nightwing moving together with the grace and ease of long experience. The Kryptonian and Bane, on the other hand, nearly came to blows, each of them wanting to be the first to take on their hated rival. Bane eventually seemed to win the silent argument, but as he climbed into the ring the camera zoomed up close to show the Kryptonian’s expression, his eyes narrowed and his teeth gritted at his own partner.

It was a memorable match from the very start: the Dark Knight and Bane pulled off some amazing moves, many of them spontaneous. When it looked like Bane was getting the upper hand, the Dark Knight struggled to the corner where Nightwing was waiting and tagged him in.

The crowd erupted in delight at the hot tag as Nightwing sprang into the ring. According to the rules of a tag team match, both of them could be there in the ring for five seconds after a tag. The audience expected something spectacular in those five seconds, and the Dynamic Duo never failed to deliver. This time Nightwing slid between Bane’s legs, coming up into a leg sweep at exactly the same moment the Dark Knight executed a superkick to Bane’s head. The simultaneous attacks smashed Bane backwards onto the mat, giving Nightwing time to climb up onto the turnbuckle and prepare his next move as the Dark Knight stepped out of the ring just before the five seconds was up. From there, he watched as his refreshed protege danced around Bane, mocking and teasing him with quick, light jabs and acrobatic moves. The strategy was clearly to tire him out while giving the Dark Knight a chance to recover from his previous matches.

A savvy wrestler would tag in his own partner, take advantage of the format to catch his own breath. But Bane refused to tag in the Kryptonian despite his angry, silent gestures: his pride was such that he would not let someone else fight along with him. And because pride always goeth before a fall in such stories, that would be his eventual downfall: the Kryptonian, galled beyond bearing, would turn on him while the referee was distracted by Brainiac, stunning him with a mighty blow and leaving him open to the pin by the Dark Knight.

Clark furrowed his brow dramatically and glared past the match, making eye contact with Bruce waiting outside the far corner. The Kryptonian pointed at his old foe, silently threatening him as Nightwing feinted around Bane: _How I yearn for the chance to crush you!_ In reality, Clark was assessing Bruce’s condition: he had shrugged off his previous three matches as quick and easy wins, but there was exertion involved in all three of them, and he truly needed the time to rest while Nightwing sparred with Bane. For his part, Bane showed no sign of it, but the match with Wonder Woman had been magnificent and strenuous, and surely he was tired.

Not much longer, Clark reassured himself. Soon Bane would execute his backbreaker on the Dark Knight, the Kryptonian would snap and slug him, and the match would be over. They could all celebrate pulling off a match for the history books backstage, and Clark would meet Alfred and then make sure Bruce got at least twelve hours of sleep after icing all his joints.

Nightwing ducked under a punch by an increasingly-frustrated Bane and did a backflip onto the top ropes to the gasps of the crowd, tagging the Dark Knight as he perched there. But Bane was too fast for him, and before he could leave the ring to safety, Bane’s fist caught him in the ribs, sending him plummeting out of the ring and to the apron to lie stunned. “Sorry, Dick,” Bruce had explained earlier, “But it can’t be the two of us against Bane the whole way through. Not very sporting.”

So now it was just the Dark Knight and Bane in the ring. Nightwing was “out cold,” and the Kryptonian was seething, helpless in his corner, ignored by his erstwhile ally. Everything was in place.

The Dark Knight and Bane were putting on a great show, brawling around the ring, trading blows and throws. Meanwhile, Brainiac had approached the fallen Nightwing and was indulging in kicking the supine wrestler to the thunderous boos of the crowd--boos which changed in a flash to cheers as Nightwing leapt up to seize Brainiac and toss him into a barricade. 

Brainiac screamed in panic as Nightwing advanced on him: “Save me, Kal-El! Save me, my master!” and the Kryptonian immediately turned from the match to attack Nightwing, grabbing him in his fearsome Psionic Claw.

The Dark Knight looked at the action outside the ring and saw his friend being attacked, and in that moment of distraction, Bane pressed the attack and turned the tables. By the time the Kryptonian threw Nightwing’s limp and twitching body to the floor, apparently unconscious, the Dark Knight was facing a hail of punches and kicks. Reeling, he tried to fight back, but his defense was growing weaker, he was clearly out of reserves, exhausted.

The Kryptonian clambered back to his corner, his clenched jaw and baleful glare radiating barely-suppressed fury at Nightwing, the Dark Knight, his own partner. Finally, a haymaker from Bane left the Dark Knight lying on the mat, too dazed to stand. The crowd shrieked encouragement at him as he struggled to lift himself on limbs trembling with fatigue, but it was no good. The match was clearly coming to a crescendo.

The Kryptonian shook silent fists at his partner, but Bane just laughed. “I did not need your help, alien! Bane relies on no one!”

But it was at this point that Bane made what was going to be his fatal mistake: he turned his back on the Kryptonian in his corner in order to pick up the Dark Knight for his finishing move.

As he did, the Kryptonian reached out and tagged him with a fleeting touch that he didn’t even seem to notice. The Kryptonian was now the legal man and they were both able to be in the ring together for five seconds. Bane bent over the Dark Knight, picking him up; behind him the Kryptonian was climbing over the ropes, clearly itching for the chance to attack his own partner. Bane didn’t see him, too intent on finishing off his opponent.

(In his hotel room, Clark Kent pauses the recording and closes his eyes. Then he takes a breath and hits ”play” once again).

Bane lifted the dazed Dark Knight, and with a heave hoisted his body high over his head. For a long moment they stood there frozen, the crowd in caught in breathless, terrified anticipation. _”I shall break you!”_ Bane cried, bringing his foe down across his knee.

Later, Clark would be able to find the moment where everything went wrong, but even the most meticulous, the most agonized, reviewing could never give a clear answer as to whose fault it was. On the recording he could see how the Dark Knight’s weight shifted just the tiniest, key fraction, but whether Bane’s weary grip gave way or Bruce’s exhausted body was unable to hold the right position, Clark could never tell, no matter how many times he watched. 

How many hundreds of times.

But in the match, there was no pause button, there was no rewind, and Clark did not realize something had gone wrong until the moment of impact, when Bruce dropped to the mat and lay there. No dramatic flopping, no emotive writhing, no heartfelt grimaces of pain or clutching at his back as there should have been: he just lay where he fell, and Clark felt his heart seize up and turn over.

Something was wrong.

Bane bent over the Dark Knight, sneering. Clark stood in the ring. The crowd noise seemed very far away, somehow. He could see Bruce’s fingers twitch and scrabble on the mat.

Something was badly wrong.

Bane swung away from the Dark Knight and faced the Kryptonian. This was the moment where the Kryptonian was supposed to attack him, but instead Bane lunged forward and grabbed the Kryptonian’s throat, dragging him close.

“It is bad,” Bane said quietly. “Throw me out of the ring. We must buy him time.”

For a moment they glared at each other, and then the Kryptonian seized Bane’s arm and countered the hold, hurling him out of the ring. Bane immediately started to stalk Brainiac, who scrambled away from him, eyes wild. The crowd’s attention was all on Bane and Brainiac, cheering on one or the other. Good.

Clark took a step forward, then another. Bruce was lying in the middle of the ring, looking up at the ceiling with an abstracted, inner-focused look on his face. He met Clark’s eyes as the Kryptonian glared down at him.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Bruce said below the roar of the crowd. He looked vaguely surprised. 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said.

Clark stood up and walked to the edge of the ring. The crowd noise was expanding into a vast, buzzing maelstrom, meaningless and mad. The referee was bending over Bruce, whispering with him. Meaningless sounds. _I can’t feel--_ Meaningless. Bane finally had Brainiac in an iron grip, and the crowd was cheering him on, their attention dragged from the static tableau in the ring. 

Clark watched the two men pretending to hurt each other and felt reality crumble and slip around him.

Bane chokeslammed Brainiac, and the audience’s attention swung once more to the ring, to the Dark Knight lying within. “Get up and fight him!” yelled someone.

Sandy was at Clark’s side, touching his elbow. “He says he’ll try to get to the Kryptonite. Stall.”

It would be easiest, Clark thought, to just pin the Dark Knight for the win. He could just lie down on the mat beside him, put his arm over him, and the referee would count to three and the bell would ring and it would be all over. It would all be over.

The Dark Knight was supposed to win this match. He wasn’t supposed to lose. Not in Gotham.

_He says he’ll try to get to the Kryptonite._

Clark realized suddenly that he’d been turning in a slow circle, staring sightlessly out at the thousands of avid faces. Far up the ramp, Nightwing was crawling toward the ring--he was supposed to be out cold, but not hell itself would stop Dick Grayson from being there for Bruce if he needed him. The auditorium swum and spun, filled with babble and chaos. The well-dressed man in the front row was staring at him, his face white. The woman with him was clutching his arm. The crowd was starting to murmur, to rustle. What was going on?

Stall.

_Stall._

The Kryptonian put his clenched fists up in front of him and shook them--at his enemies, at the audience, at the universe. And then the silent monster, the alien who had never uttered a sound, threw back his head and screamed.

It was a howl of rage and fury and desolation, so wild and raw that the audience fell silent in shock, staring at him.

The Kryptonian turned to glare at the Dark Knight, pointing at him. _”Look!_ Look at what happens when you fragile humans dare to oppose me! Witness the futility of your actions! See the inevitable consequences!” He strode over to the Dark Knight and stooped above him, howling, his face twisted into a frenzied mask : _”You break!”_

“No!” From outside the ring, Milton Fine’s panicked voice broke into the Kryptonian’s roar: “No, no, no, no!” He was gesticulating wildly, making a throat-cutting motion. “Don’t do this!”

The Kryptonian bared his teeth, swinging from his opponent to glare at Brainiac. _”Shut up!”_ he bellowed, and Brainiac’s mouth clicked closed, his eyes bugging out. “How dare you! I will not be controlled, I will not be manipulated, I am not your puppet! Silence, or I shall crush you as this so-called Knight has been crushed!” 

In the hush of the auditorium, the Kryptonian’s furious, heaving breaths echoed like sobs.

The referee put his palm on the Kryptonian’s chest, leaning in apparently to tell him to back off; the Kryptonian shoved him aside. 

_He’s ready,_ Sandy whispered.

“Yes!” cried the Kryptonian. “Destroyed as this human has been destroyed!” He turned to stride over to the Dark Knight, still lying on his back, and stood astride him, the conquering alien. “You are beaten, puny mortal!” he yelled into his face, bending close. “You will not rise again, you are _finished_ , it is _over_!”

Bruce looked up at him. And then he winked. He _winked._

The Dark Knight lifted his hand (it trembled slightly, so slightly) and blew a cloud of sparkling green dust into the sneering face above him.

Clark froze and then started to slowly topple over. As he did, Bruce grabbed his shoulder, letting Clark’s momentum lift him up and over so he flopped on top of the Kryptonian.

Clark could hear Sandy’s count over the cheers of the crowd as he lay.

_”One!”_

He could feel Bruce’s breath in exhausted, labored puffs against his shoulder.

_”Two!”_

He reached up and touched Bruce’s hair. He supposed there was a chance it might look like the Kryptonian was trying to push his opponent away with his failing strength and not a caress. He didn’t actually care.

_”Three!”_

The bell clashed in Clark’s ears: sweet defeat at last. Sandy rushed over and lifted Bruce’s hand while he still lay on the mat, and then there was a pause. The sound of the crowd poured over them in waves. Outside the ring, Clark knew the medical team would be getting a stretcher ready. Bruce’s skin was cool against his, slicked with sweat, his body heavy and solid on him as if he were asleep.

“Thank you,” mumbled Bruce against his shoulder.

Then the medical team was there, rolling Bruce over carefully, lifting him onto a stretcher. Clark staggered to his feet. The match was over but the show was not. Outside the ring, Bane and Nightwing were trading blows. Bane glanced over, met his eyes: _Keep the audience distracted._

 _”Bane!”_ howled the Kryptonian, and staggered out of the ring to join the brawl. Nightwing met him halfway, and they locked up, Nightwing grabbing his shoulder and waist.

“Is he--” Dick murmured. Clark could feel him trembling, realized he was too. They were practically holding each other up. 

“He’ll be all right,” Clark said. His voice sounded false even to himself.

“Damn it!” Dick yelled, shoving him away. “God fucking damn it!” He grabbed a chair, slammed it across the Kryptonian’s back: the sharp sting of impact felt almost soothing, it was a pain Clark could process.

The three of them brawled around the ring, always managing to steer clear of the stretcher. Between throws and punches, Clark caught glimpses of Bruce being strapped into a neck brace, of the medical staff in their referees’ jerseys talking to him. The seats Alfred and the woman had been in were empty. Everything felt unreal: the audience noise, the motions of the moves, the anguished rage inside him. All faraway and distant. The stretcher was lifted. Carried up the ramp. 

Gone.

* * *

 _”What the hell happened?”_ Clark Kent stormed into the locker room and grabbed Bane by the collar, slamming him up against the lockers. “What have you done?” 

The buzz of worried chatter stopped as all the wrestlers turned to stare at the two of them. Clark shook him once, hard.

“He slipped,” said Bane. “I would rather have taken the blow myself than hurt a fellow warrior. I will not forgive myself.”

Clark glared at him for a long moment. Then he dropped him, swinging away with an inarticulate snarl to punch the locker next to him with a deafening clangor. “Where is he?” he snapped at Jimmy. 

“The ambulance--” stammered Jimmy.

”Which hospital?” Clark advanced on Jimmy as if he were going to tear the information out of him. _”Tell me!”_

“Gotham General!” yelped Jimmy, putting his hands up. “Luthor says he’ll have a briefing soon, he’ll let everyone--”

“--I’m not waiting for a briefing!” Clark’s voice was raw and ragged. Everyone was staring at him. He yanked open his locker and started to drag out his civilian clothes. 

“Hey, relax, man,” said Oliver Queen, making calming motions with his hands. “It’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.”

“And if he is?” Clark whirled to glare at Ollie. “Would you have a problem with that, huh?” He scrubbed at his face. Unreal, everything was unreal. _”Would you?”_

“Jesus, man,” said Ollie, spreading his hands wide. “You should know me better than that. I don’t give a damn, Clark.”

“Well I do,” said Clark. It didn’t seem to quite fit as a response, but he couldn’t parse what else to say. “I give a damn. And I’m going to the hospital.”

He yanked off his stupid, inane leotard, stuffing it viciously into his bag. The locker room seemed to be swinging and swirling around him as he dragged on his jeans. There were people touching him on the back as they passed, patting his shoulder. He supposed it was meant to be supportive. Comforting.

He threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and left the locker room, pushing past Lex Luthor as he came in. There was a brief look of surprise on Luthor’s face, but he didn’t call after Clark as Clark strode for the exit.

It was a cool, crisp fall night, an impassive full moon overlooking the city of Gotham. Clark hailed a cab and headed for Gotham General.

* * *

“I’m sorry, he’s in surgery right now,” said the brisk and efficient nurse, giving him a dubious look. Belatedly, Clark realized he hadn’t cleaned off all of his facepaint and the red contacts were still in place. “It may be a while still. If you want to take a seat in the waiting room, we can tell you when he’s out.”

“Please,” said Clark. He stopped by the restroom and scrubbed off his face, removing the contacts. He looked at them for a moment, the little discs of red plastic on his fingers, then flushed them down the sink. For good measure, he stuffed the Kryptonian’s suit into a trash chute. Then he had to wash his hands again.

He sat for a very long time in the waiting room, staring at the walls. Dick and Diana showed up and sat next to him. Diana took his hand and they sat in silence.

Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore and went back to the brisk and efficient nurse. “I’m afraid Mr. Wayne has been checked out of the hospital,” she said, looking at her computer screen.

“What?”

“After the surgery was over, he checked out. Under the care of his private physician, a Doctor Kinsolving.”

Clark gaped at her. “Where--Where did he go?”

The nurse frowned at him. “I’m afraid I can’t release his personal information to anyone but family, sir. Are you his brother?”

“No,” said Clark. Gone. Bruce was gone. “I’m not.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and turned back to her work.

There was nothing else to do and no reason to be there, so Clark turned around and left. 

Diana and Dick made him eat some food. They said things to each other and to Clark. They took him back to his hotel room.

Bruce was gone.

* * *

Clark pauses the recording again at the moment of impact. Rewinds. The phone sits on the dresser, silent. He knows without looking at it that it has exactly forty texts to Bruce’s number over the last two weeks, and exactly ten phone calls.

None have a reply.

He watches the match unfold once more. Pauses at the moment Bruce slips again. 

He has to stop doing this, has to move forward, can’t stay trapped, reliving this moment over and over again. He has to stop. He knows this.

Instead, he rewinds. Watches again. Pauses again.

Rewinds.

The phone remains silent.


	42. Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Bruce's injury, the DCW keeps moving forward, because it must. Clark Kent, however, has a harder time of it.

_ One of the things I learned? When someone suffers a serious injury and is going to be out for a long time: all your friends make that one customary visit or that one customary call. It’s like, “Hey, man, I hope you get better.” Then everybody disappears. I don’t think anybody wants to end up in that situation, seeing you with a neck brace. They’re reminded: “That could be me.” --Lodi _

Clark Kent walks past the laptop screen, frozen as always at the moment before Bruce begins his descent, his fall. He can see his own face behind them, looking over at Dick Grayson. Oblivious to what was about to happen. Two weeks. It’s been two weeks. He can’t move forward.

The lights of Gotham gleam outside the hotel window. At this moment, in Akron Ohio, the DCW is putting on a show. If he were to turn on the television, he would see them there: Hawkman and Green Lantern, Batgirl and Poison Ivy. Gleaming and glowing like phantasms, stories come to life. 

But not the Kryptonian.

Never again.

* * *

The common room was nearly silent the night after Bruce’s accident. People sat around playing solitaire or looking moodily at their phones; a red-eyed Selina was scrolling through web page after web page of cute cat gifs without seeming to see them. So when a commotion suddenly broke out behind the door of Luthor’s office, no one really had the option to pretend they didn’t hear it. People traded nervous glances at the sound of Dick Grayson’s voice lifted in anger, of Lex Luthor’s voice remaining utterly calm.

The door opened and Dick Grayson stormed out, clearly too agitated to even speak clearly. He glared at Luthor as Luthor emerged from his office holding the Dark Knight’s cape and cowl. Luthor tossed the cowl across the room--at Jean Paul Valley, who almost didn’t get his hands up in time to catch it, then sat there, looking shocked.

“You’re the Dark Knight from now,” said Luthor. He pivoted, looking at each surprised face. “The gimmick is hugely over, and I’m not letting it go to waste just because Wayne got himself injured. Bane is supposed to fight the Dark Knight at the Pay per View this weekend, and by God he will.” He pointed at Jean Paul. “I suggest you get training.”

Jean Paul looked down at the cowl in his hands. “You ask me to impersonate the belt holder, when I haven’t actually earned the belt,” he said.

Luthor cast his eyes skyward: _save me from wrestlers who take themselves too seriously_. “News flash, Valley: it’s all rigged. You’ve earned the belt by being able to do Wayne’s moveset. That’s good enough. Get with the program.”

“But that’s not fair,” said Tim from the corner. “Dick should take Bruce’s place. He--”

Luthor leveled a look at him. “Yes, do tell me how to run my business, kid whose name I do not remember.” He snapped his fingers a few times, as if trying to jog his memory. “You’re my lightboard operator, right? The one who thinks he can be a wrestler. Snake.”

“Drake,” muttered Tim, lifting his chin.

“Well, I suggest you stick to lighting,” Luthor snapped. 

Clark looked at Dick, who was standing facing the wall, his chest heaving as he took great breaths of air. “He’s right, though, Luthor. Dick has the right to--”

Luthor pulled out his phone, held it up in front of Clark’s face. Clark’s heart did a sudden dull thump as he read:

_Herniated disc in my neck. Doc says I’ll be back in eight to ten weeks. I’m thinking four or five._

**Noted. I’ll take the doctor’s word over yours. Also, I’m keeping the belt on the Dark Knight.**

_Of course. I’d suggest Valley, he’s the right build and knows my moves. Anyone but Grayson._

**Don’t lecture me, Wayne. I’ll do what’s best for business.**

Clark’s first reaction was a surge of relief: Bruce was capable of typing, he wasn’t permanently injured. He held on to that relief as Luthor put his phone away, eyeing Clark with an expression as neutral as milk.

”Anyone but Grayson,” Dick said, his voice choked. _”Anyone but Grayson!”_

“You’ll be ready by Sunday?” Luthor said to Valley.

Jean Paul nodded, still holding the empty cowl in his hands. “The Dark Knight cannot be defeated,” he said.

Dick punched the wall hard enough to make several people jump, then threw himself out of the common room. Roy Harper, Starfire, and Barbara Gordon traded worried looks and followed after him.

Luthor watched them go with a shrug, then turned to go back to his office.

“Where is he?” Clark said to his back.

Luthor stopped in mid-step, then looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said.

“He’s your employee. You must have an address--”

“--I’ve got two or three, Kent. Different apartments, scattered about. I’ve got a bank account that I’ve been paying into regularly. I’ve got the same phone number you’ve probably got. Other than that, I’ve got nothing.” He gave Clark an assessing look. “You need to focus on the pay-per-view,” he said. “You’ve got a big match against--”

“No,” said Clark.

“No?” Luthor’s brows drew together sharply.

“I’m done with that gimmick. I won’t play the Kryptonian again. That’s over,” said Clark. He was surprised at how level his voice was. “I won’t do it.”

Luthor eyed him narrowly for a very long time. Then he sniffed, once. “It was getting stale anyway,” he said, “I’m going to give you a month to think about a new gimmick. We’ll come up with a kayfabe reason the Kryptonian’s not around--it shouldn’t be hard, with that crazy stunt you pulled. Brainiac can say you’ve retreated to the North Pole to think things over.” He pointed at Clark. “It’s about time you took some initiative, Kent. One month, then you pitch me something better. What you do with the rest of the month is your own business. Rest, train, go home and milk cows. Do what you’ve got to do--find what you’ve got to find--to get your head back in the game.” He looked at Tim Drake, who was deeply absorbed in his computer. “What do you think of that plan, kid?”

Tim looked up, surprised. “Well, I think--”

“It doesn’t _matter_ what you think!” Luthor barked, then turned around and walked back to his office with his hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling.

* * *

Clark’s duffel bag felt oddly light as he crossed the street to the pizza joint he always went to with Bruce when they were in town. Strange how pitching the Kryptonian’s gear had immediately made everything lighter. Or perhaps it had made him feel stronger?

Peeking in the window, he saw Dick sitting with Barbara, Tim, and--he blinked in surprise--Jason Todd. Dick was gesticulating angrily, phone in hand, as the other three were listening to him. Tim glanced away and spotted Clark standing on the sidewalk. He jerked his head slightly and raised his eyebrows: _come on in._

Clark went in.

“Have a seat,” said Jason, scooting aside to make room for him. “Dick needs more audience for his freak-out.”

“Hey, _you’re_ the one who’s been texting us all nonstop-- _where’s Bruce, is he okay, what should we do?_ ” Tim mimicked.

Jason flushed and slumped lower in his seat. “It’s none of my business,” he muttered, “I just happened to be in town--I’m out of your stupid playacting biz.”

“Oh, shut up,” Barbara said, slapping the back of his head, and he blushed brighter.

“Look at this. Just _look_ at this bull,” snapped Dick, shoving his phone over to Clark.

**Why the hell did you tell Luthor to choose Valley over me? Why??**

_Glad to hear you’re worried about me._

**Of course I’m worried about you, you bastard! We’re all worried! Clark’s going crazy! Don’t change the subject!**

_Would you do me a favor?_

Bruce’s messages continued without waiting for Dick’s answer.

_Would you tell Clark…_

Clark stared at the phone. The little dots that indicated Bruce was typing swirled on the screen. Stopped. Swirled again. Stopped. Clark waited some more.

_Tell him I’ll see him soon._

Clark looked at the words on the screen for a long moment, then handed the phone back to Dick.

“I still say if you guys are so worried, you should go find him,” said Jason with a nonchalant wave that said _not that I’m worried._

“Come on, Dick, you know him the best of all of us,” said Tim. “Any idea where he’s holed up?”

Dick looked down at his phone and grimaced. “I...don’t know anything for sure,” he said. “I’ve got some hypotheses, but--” He shot a sudden furtive look at Clark, “--but I don’t know if he’d appreciate my sharing them with you.”

Barbara was idly twirling a french fry between her fingers, looking at it intently. “If he wanted to be found, he’d have given you an address,” she said.

“Why wouldn’t he want to be found?” Tim said with a plaintive edge to his voice.

She smiled at him, but it had a weary edge to it. “You’ll understand when you’re a full-time wrestler. Look, our jobs, our livelihoods, depend on _being there_ for the person we’re working with, right? Our partner needs us to be totally reliable.” She shrugged. “I can only speak for myself, but when I hurt my back that time, and the doctors didn’t even know if I’d walk again--well, I didn’t want anyone I might work with seeing me like that.” She stabbed the fry into her ketchup a few times. “When Pamela jumps off the top rope, I don’t want her to remember me lying in bed, in pain, unable to move.” 

She tucked the fry into her mouth and chewed for a moment, staring into space. No one said anything.

“I don’t mean I wanted to sit alone feeling sorry for myself. Well, not most days,” she added with a rueful smile. “But I didn’t want my co-workers to see me like that. I didn’t want anyone but my family there. If Bruce is like me, he’s not sure he wants any of us to see him in a neck brace, watch him struggling to move his arms. I say we give him his space. We’ll be here for him when he comes back.”

Dick looked for a second like he was about to argue with her, then seemed to remember he was angry at Bruce and closed his mouth again. 

“All right then,” said Jason, “I guess we wait.”

“We?” said Tim with a small smile.

“You guys can wait for him to come back so you can give him a hug. Me, I’m waiting for him to come back so I can kick his ass for hiding from us,” Jason said.

“I look forward to seeing you try,” said Barbara.

They settled into a steady stream of bickering and pizza-eating, and Clark let the sound wash over him, looking out the window. Thinking about pain, and about family.

* * *

“Thanks for the ride, sir.”

Bill Ross gave Clark a small wave as the passenger-side door slammed shut. As he drove off, Clark turned to look up the winding driveway to the little white farmhouse. A face appeared in the kitchen window, and Clark saw a hand fly to his mother’s mouth. A moment later the front door opened and she met him halfway down the driveway, laughing as she threw her arms around him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” said Clark, “I couldn’t--” 

Martha hugged him tightly. “You never need to call ahead, Clark. Pa’s off in town buying some nails--he’ll be so pleased to see you!” She used her apron to wipe the corners of her eyes. “Come in and have something to eat.”

“So,” she said later as Clark was finishing his second piece of pie. “Is it bad?”

Clark swallowed a mouthful of blueberries and whipped cream. “Is what bad?”

“The boy who got hurt at the last show, that Dark Knight.” She frowned at him. “I can tell when my son is frightened and in pain, no matter how much of that horrible makeup he’s wearing. Is he a...special friend of yours? Is he okay?”

Clark couldn’t help but smile slightly at her tiny hesitation. Clark had never said anything to his parents. He had never needed to.

“I love him, Ma,” he said simply, then had to close his eyes against a rush of emotion. “And I don’t know if he’s okay. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Oh,” said his mother, and reached across the table to clasp his hands tightly. “Oh, my dear boy.”

“My boss gave me some time off,” Clark said. “I--I can’t be the Kryptonian again, I can’t stand it.”

“Of course you can’t,” said Martha. “It was never a good thingy for you, dear. A gimmick, isn’t that what you call them? You weren’t meant to glower and scowl. Now you just have to decide what to do next.”

“I don’t know what to do next,” said Clark. “I just need to...to think.”

“Well, your father could use some help patching up the chicken coop,” said Martha. “You can think while you hammer and paint.” She squeezed his hands once, tightly, and let go. “No reason you can’t get some work done around here while you’re thinking. And then when you’re done thinking, you can move forward again.”

* * *

For two weeks, he worked around the farm, doing odd jobs: weeding, cleaning the gutters, tuning up the tractor. He cleaned the spyware off his parents’ computer. He took a selfie of himself milking the cows and sent it to Luthor, who did not dignify it with a reply. Now and then he would send a message to Bruce--a picture of a sunset, a quick “thinking of you.” No reply there either. 

He watched the pay-per-view with his parents: when the Dark Knight appeared at the top of the ramp, his mother reached out and patted his arm, and he realized he had made a small, hurt sound at the sight of Jean Paul Valley in Bruce’s costume, the championship gold gleaming around his waist. The match was a good one--Valley made a convincing Dark Knight, and he beat Bane triumphantly. The roof of the Gotham auditorium rattled.

Clark wondered if Bruce was watching with his father. Was the older woman who had been at the match his mother? Bruce had never mentioned a foster-mother.

Sometimes he lay on his back and watched the clouds, thinking of Krypton. What if the Kryptonian hadn’t come here as a conqueror after all? What if he had actually come here as a child--a desperate gamble, a message of hope in a tiny metal bottle against the vastness of space? What if he had landed right here in a corn field? What would he be then? He pulled out old sketchbooks, studied the costumes he had designed as a child. Pictures of himself as a wrestler outrunning bullets, stopping trains. Dreams in blue and red.

He ate far too much of his mother’s cooking.

He didn’t watch the video of the match--still paused at the moment before the accident--even once.

He missed Bruce a lot.

And then he went back to Gotham and a bare hotel room, and opened his laptop, and started the video of the match again.

* * *

The image is frozen on the screen: Bane lifting the Dark Knight high, the slip just about to happen. The moment he has never been able to get past.

He paces around the room for a full ten minutes, then sits down in front of the screen.

_Time to move forward._

He unpauses the video and forces himself to watch the moment of impact. He feels his hands trembling as he watches everyone stall for time. The camera refuses to dwell on Bruce: instead, it follows the Kryptonian, Bane, and Nightwing as they brawl. He sees Bruce only in flashes, glimpses at the corner of the screen; the Dark Knight’s titanic struggle to reach the green powder that will let him win the match is barely visible. 

He watches the Dark Knight stun his foe with the Kryptonite, watches himself topple over. They lie together on the mat for a moment, and then the bell rings and the referee is lifting Bruce’s hand briefly as the medical team puts the stretcher down on the mat next to him. The enraged Kryptonian charges at Bane, leaving the ring.

Before the camera cuts to the new fight and away from the ring, Clark sees the older woman with Alfred trying to scramble over the barricades, trying to get to the ring. Security bars her way, and she tries to push them aside.

“You don’t understand--I’m a doctor!” cries the woman, “Let me help him! Let me--”

Alfred takes her arm. There are tears on his face, barely glimpsed before the camera cuts away again. “Leslie, no,” he says, barely audible over the crowd noise.

Clark stops the video again. He stands up and looks out at the city of Gotham, at the millions of twinkling lights outside his window. Millions of souls.

He picks up his phone and sends a text to Bruce.

_Barbara says that right now you probably don’t want your co-workers to see you. That you don’t want the people who have to put their life in your hands to see you as fragile or struggling. I understand that. Right now you want to be with your family, with the people who love you._

_That’s why I’m coming to find you._

_Because I don’t care if I never work with you again--I love you and I want to be there for you. I want to be a part of your life outside of work. I want us to have a life together._

_So I’m going to find you, Bruce. You have my word._

He waits all through the night, falling asleep with the phone on the pillow next to him, fearing it will buzz, terrified he will see a message telling him _Don’t._

In the morning, there is still no response, and he feels his heart ease in his chest.

He rewinds the paused video, watches Alfred and the woman one more time.

Then he opens up a search engine and starts to look for doctors in the greater Gotham area with the first name of Leslie.

He moves forward.


	43. Wayne Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark searches for Bruce--and finds more than he bargains for.

As Clark stood in front of Leslie Thompkins’ clinic, the first thing he felt was...relief. The grimy tenements, the walls scrawled with graffiti, the broken windows: this was exactly the kind of neighborhood he had imagined Bruce growing up in. He looked around, wondering which of these dusty windows had framed the sky for a young boy dreaming of a different life. _I’ll find you, Bruce._

Then he took a deep breath and walked into the clinic.

It was crowded with people: harried, ill, wounded people. A man with a bloodstained bandage around his head leaned against the wall, dozing fitfully. A baby cried in a room nearby and he heard a father’s voice soothing, shushing. The scent of antiseptic overlay but couldn’t hide the smell of illness. 

Yet it was surprisingly clean and well-furnished, Clark noticed as he went up to the front desk. The equipment was modern, the computers new. Someone had been funding it recently, and he had a good idea who.

“I’m sorry,” said the man behind the front desk, “But Dr. Thompkins is seeing a patient right now. Do you have an appointment, Mr…?”

“Kent. When she has a moment, could you tell her Clark Kent would like to see her?” The man shrugged with an air that indicated Clark would be waiting quite a long time and pointed to the waiting room seats.

Clark was almost falling into an uneasy doze when he heard a small gasp next to him. Turning, he met the wide-eyed gaze of a girl no more than eight, her hands over her mouth. “You’re the Kryptonian,” she said, adding with a touch of uncertainty, “...aren’t you?”

“I was,” he said, and held out his hand for her to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss.”

“My name’s Josefina,” she said. “My mother’s seeing Dr. Thompkins right now. She has to see her a lot. Her hair fell out and she was really tired, but the doctor says she’s going to be okay, so that’s good. I like wrestling, that’s how I knew you.” She held up the pad of paper she’d been drawing on to reveal decent likenesses of Wonder Woman, Batgirl, and Nightwing. “See?”

“Wow,” said Clark, “Those are really good.”

She beamed. “Thank you. I gave some to Dr. Thompkins to put up in her office last time we were here, but she didn’t like them. She said wrestling was stupid and violent and...and tetostertone-soaked.” She looked down at her drawing and traced Nightwing’s mask with her finger. “But I like it. I couldn’t explain why to her.”

“Well,” said Clark, “I think wrestling gives us a chance to dream big dreams. Really big dreams, the kind you know are unrealistic. And sometimes those dreams are stupid, it’s true. There’s nothing too subtle about a dream of throwing a bully through a table, or getting revenge on people who laughed at you and made you feel bad. But in wrestling we dress those dreams up and make them huge and glittery and gorgeous, and we let everyone dream them together.”

A pause. “I didn’t think the Kryptonian talked,” Josefina said, just a trifle chidingly. “I thought you were a big mean alien who hated humans and wanted to take over the world.”

Clark stretched--the hospital waiting chairs weren’t exactly designed for his frame, and he was starting to feel cramped. “I was,” he said. “But lately I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think I’ve decided this whole world-conquering thing isn’t for me. Because you know what?” He waited for her to shake her head, her eyes wide. “I’m going to let you in on a big secret, Josefina. And that secret is that _humans are amazing._ I mean, look at you.” He gestured to the notepad, “Look at those dreams. I bet you’ve invented some new wrestlers all on your own, with nothing but your mind, haven’t you?” 

Shyly, she lifted the paper to reveal sketches of what appeared to be a wrestler with a ballerina gimmick, suplexing and pirouetting.

“Great scott, that’s incredible,” he said. “Look at that. That’s something that didn’t exist in the whole universe until you made it real with nothing but your mind and your pencil. Or how about your mother? How she fought off that disease--she was so strong and so brave, wasn’t she?” Josefina nodded solemnly, and Clark crossed his arms, nodding firmly. “Humans are the best. I was wrong to ever want to conquer them or hurt them. From now on, no matter what, I want to be a friend to all humans.”

Two small arms went around his neck, and soft lips touched his cheek. “That sounds super,” said Josefina.

Then Clark felt her look behind them and she squeaked happily. “Mom!” 

Clark turned as she jumped up and ran to hug the woman who must be her mother. Next to her stood Leslie Thompkins, medical clipboard in hand and eyeglasses perched on her nose. She spoke briefly to Josephina, gave her mother some final instructions, and saw them off. As the doors closed on Josephina chattering happily to her rather incredulous mother about her conversation with a reformed world-conquering alien, Dr. Thompkins turned an unsmiling gaze upon him, eyeing him from head to toe.

“You might as well come in,” she said after the once-over.

* * *

“I don’t share information about my patients, Mr. Kent,” she said as Clark finished up his rather stammering and incoherent introduction. “I’m sorry.”

“But I--” Clark broke off, swallowed. “But I need to find him, Dr. Thompkins. And I think he wants me to. I think that--that I’ve pushed him away in the past, and so maybe he doesn’t believe I’ll really be there for him. But I will. I swear I will.”

Her expression had softened as he spoke, but she still shook her head. “I won’t break the confidentiality of my patients.”

There was the slightest emphasis on the last word; he sat and thought for a moment. Then he said, “The man you were with at the show. Is he a patient of yours?”

She almost smiled. “No, he’s not. His name is Alfred Pennyworth.”

Clark managed to keep his reaction to the idea that Bruce’s real name might be “Bruce Pennyworth” from showing on his face. At least he hoped so. “I would really like to talk to him. Would you be willing to tell me where he lives?”

She picked up a pen, ripped off a piece of notepaper. Then she paused with the pen poised above the paper. “Young man, I am only doing this because I have heard Bruce speak of you, and I have seen his face when he speaks of you. He trusts you. I may not approve of the choices that he has made with his life, but if you betray that trust--” She broke off and sniffed once, hard, glaring down at the paper. “Well, I hope you never sleep well again.”

Clark rested a hand on her shoulder, very gently. “He’s very special to me.”

She nodded and wiped her eyes. “He’s a very special boy.” She wrote an address on the paper. “Now go find him.”

“Is it within walking distance?” he asked, glancing at the address. “I mean, is it around here?”

“No,” she said, with a small and amused smile. “No, it’s not around here.”

* * *

The taxi driver gave an unamused bark of laughter when Clark got in and gave him the address. “Another one of them morbid sightseers, huh?”

“I’m sorry?”

The driver shook his head as he eased the taxi into traffic and sped away from downtown. “I seen your type before. Ghoulish, that’s what I call it. Like the place is gonna be haunted or something. It’s just an old house, ya know? Besides, it’s not like you can see much from the road or anything. But every couple of months someone’s on a tour of the Great Tragedies of Gotham or something and has to go there.”

They were passing over the New Trigate Bridge, heading into the suburbs, the apartments giving way to split-level houses.

“Or maybe you’re hoping to get a glimpse of the kid--I suppose he’s not a kid now, not that anyone’s seen him for years. Lives all alone there with the butler, I hear, since he came back from Europe or something.” The driver shot a glare at Clark in the mirror. “I don’t much approve of folks like you coming by to gawk. Kid’s suffered enough. I don’t care how much money he’s got, nothing makes up for that.”

The houses were further and further apart now, often hidden behind hedges or fences. The trees here were gnarled oaks that must have been planted nearly a century ago. Clark’s mouth was dry. The taxi driver was still complaining, but the words seemed disconnected from reality.

“Nothing makes up for what?”

The taxi screeched to a halt on the side of the road; on the far side a wrought-iron fence thick with ivy hid whatever lay beyond. A pair of heavy gates with a family crest interrupted the leafy green barrier.

“Nothing makes up for seeing your parents killed right in front of your eyes,” snapped the taxi driver. “That’s what you’re here to see, right? Wayne Manor, home of the poor little rich boy orphan, the billionaire recluse? So get outta my taxi, you creep.”

The taxi sped off. Clark looked at the slip of paper in his hand, then at the crest of arms on the gates, the ornate “W” worked into the metal. 

Clark wrapped his hands around the iron bars, rested his head on the crest for a moment.

_Bruce. Oh, Bruce._

* * *

After a while he rummaged among the ivy to find a call button. “Wayne Manor,” said a crisp British voice.

“Um. Hello,” said Clark, then ran out of things to say. The intercom was silent. The oak-lined road was silent. “This is Clark Kent. I’d...like to see Bruce.”

“I’m afraid Master Wayne is not available at the moment,” said the voice. “If you would leave your name, perhaps--”

“--I’m really sorry, but I have to see him.” Clark stepped away from the intercom, to the side of the gate. “I know this is rude--” He started to scramble up the fence, “--And, uh, illegal, I guess. I’m sorry.”

“Now see here, young man.” The voice from the intercom sounded agitated. “You can’t simply--”

“--I hope you don’t have any attack dogs,” Clark called down from near the top of the gate. “That would be awkward. Oh, pointy bits. Yipes.” He took a moment to cautiously navigate the sharp tops of the posts as Alfred continued to remonstrate him. “Okay, I’m on the other side now,” he said as he dropped to the lawn below. “I’ll just--I’ll just show myself in, then,” he called back through the gate. “I’m really sorry and I hope you won’t call the police. I just really need to talk to Bruce.”

The lane was hushed, the angular spruces on either side of the drive seeming to lean in, glaring at the intruder. The grounds were exquisitely tended--Clark glimpsed topiary sculptures from between the trees, a white gazebo. Everything silent and empty.

The Manor itself finally came into view as he went around a corner, and he came up short to stare at what was closer to a castle: curved turrets and arches in brown stone, a fountain splashing in the front. All was silent, and he felt, for a dizzy and incongruous moment, like the prince coming to the slumbering castle in _Sleeping Beauty._ He felt a somewhat-hysterical giggle rise up in his throat and swallowed hard.

The front door swung open as he approached, to reveal Alfred Pennyworth frowning at him. “Mr. Kent,” he said, and looked like he was going to say more, but then he looked at Clark’s face. Clark wasn’t sure what he saw there, but after a moment he stepped aside with a sigh and let him in.

Clark stepped into a wide hallway, the floor made of varnished parquet, gleaming in the light of an ornate chandelier. To the right and the left, ornately carved panels of dark wood covered the walls, stretching into the distance. In front of him was a wide staircase that split and curved to the left and right. Alabaster vases glowed on mahogany stands; at the top of the staircase a vast stained-glass window refracted light into purple and burgundy shafts. It felt like a museum, or a palace, or a video game: not like a place any actual human being would live. 

“Master Bruce’s room is on the second floor, the fifth door on the right,” Alfred said. “But I would not enter uninvited.”

Clark stared at Bruce’s butler--his _butler_ , Bruce had an honest-to-god- _manservant_ \--and felt himself shaking his head. It was too much.

With a sudden sharp frown, Alfred reached out and took his elbow, shaking it--not gently. “Mr. Kent,” he said. “Master Bruce is badly hurt. He does not need someone goggle-eyed and gaping like a carp, he needs a _friend_. Do not fail him.”

Clark cleared his throat. Nodded. “I won’t,” he said. “Thank you.”

He climbed the stairs, his footfalls silent on the thick Persian carpet, and made his way to Bruce’s door.

Once there, though, his courage failed him again. He stopped with his hand hovering inches from the carved wood, unable to knock. Finally put his back against the door and slid down until he was sitting on the carpet, looking up at the ceiling. It was carved into six-sided cells, each cell picked out in gold leaf, ivory inlaid in the middle. He looked at the ceiling until it blurred, and then he closed his eyes. Took a breath.

“Bruce,” he said, more to himself than as an address. The word seemed to fill the hallway. “Bruce Wayne.”

Silence.

“I knew,” he said. “I think I’ve known for a while. But I tried so hard _not_ to know, not to let myself believe it. It’s why I kept pushing you away, why I wouldn’t--let you tell me. Because you tried to. _Damnit_ \--” He banged his fists on the floor and the thick carpet consumed the sound, “You tried to tell me. But I didn’t want to hear.”

He shook his head. “It was childish of me. I know it was. But if you were _really_ \--” He broke off. “I loved those stupid trips to Target. I loved when we all stayed together in one cruddy hotel room, on the road in the JLI. Eating dried ramen. Scraping to make ends meet. I didn’t want to know that you could have bought the whole store, that you could have ordered escargot every night. Because then--then it would all have been kayfabe. It was all a game being played by some rich kid who didn’t _have_ to be playing it. It was all...fake. And so maybe we were too. That’s what I was afraid of.”

He turned his head, resting his cheek against the wood.

“But that was _stupid_ of me, Bruce. Because money isn’t what makes any of this stuff real or fake. I’m doing it because I have to, to make payments on the farm. But you’re doing it because you _have to_ too. Not for money, but for your heart. Because for a few hours every show we make a world that makes sense, where the darkness doesn’t have to win. We make big, glorious, glittering dreams. I’ve been stupid, and blind, and I pushed you away because I was afraid, but I want to be there for you. I want to be part of the dream you make. And part of the reality you live. 

“I want it all, Bruce Wayne. So please...let me in.”

There was a long pause--long enough for Clark to despair. Then from behind the door he heard a hoarse throat-clearing, followed by a familiar voice:

“Well, since I can barely sit up without help right now, I’m sure as hell not coming over there to let you in, so you’ll just have to come in on your own.” Something close to a chuckle threaded into the words. “Since you seem to have come so far on your own already, I think you can probably make it to the bed.”

Clark stood up. He was shaking, he realized. With relief, with trepidation, with joy. 

He put his hand on the crystal doorknob, and the door opened and let him in.


	44. Rehabilitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark stays with Bruce as he recovers, but the world of gimmicks and kayfabe is never far from their minds.

_ I think the guys that walk away never loved it. Truly. Because to me it’s insane to think that you could give up the love. It would be like saying, “Okay, I don’t love my mom anymore.” It’s always been about the love of the game for me, man. Life after wrestling? I don’t think that’s possible. I don’t think I’ll ever quit. --Jake “The Snake” Roberts _

“It was your real name all along,” Clark said sleepily. The sky through the window was starting to shade into twilight, the first stars peeping out through a pale veil of clouds.

“That’s the fifth time you’ve said that,” Bruce said through a yawn.

“I just can’t believe you’ve been pretending to be _yourself.”_ From his vantage point in an overstuffed chair, he propped his head up on his fist and looked at Bruce, lying in the king-sized bed looking at him. “That takes some nerve.”

“Nerve is something I have always had in abundance,” Bruce said easily. “Actual courage...that was harder to come by. The courage to tell you, for example.”

“You tried.”

“Do or do not,” said Bruce. “There is no try.”

“Don’t quote Yoda at me,” said Clark, “It’s too adorable, and I want to hug you, and I can’t.”

A wan smile. “But I could have insisted. I could have forced the matter. I was afraid that--that it would change things.” He looked at Clark. “Will it change things?”

“It sure as hell will,” said Clark. He waited just long enough for worry to shade Bruce’s face before he went on: “Now I’m going to find it impossible to listen to your Billionaire Brucie routine without laughing like a lunatic.”

Bruce’s smile was slow and beautiful. “A hug might be pushing it,” he said, “But you could probably kiss me.”

Clark stood up and bent over the bed, bringing his mouth to Bruce’s for a long, gentle kiss. “Do you want to talk about...about how it all happened?” he murmured as the kiss ended.

Bruce made a small motion as if he had started to shrug and aborted it. “It’s a simple enough story, for all Alfred and Leslie tell me it doesn’t make any sense. You know the basics: my parents were murdered in front of me.”

He said it flatly and without pathos, and Clark winced. “Yes.”

“We had just left a DCW show, and...I guess I had some childish idea that if I had been as strong and as good as the wrestlers we had seen that night, then maybe I could have…” His voice trailed off. “Alfred mostly raised me--he really is my foster-father, Clark, in every way that matters.”

“Of course he is.”

“And Leslie helped out a lot--she was an old friend of the family. I studied abroad a lot, where no one knew me. But my dream was always to be a wrestler. Alfred and Leslie never understood it, why I’d throw away my gifts to be a vaudeville figure, a stunt actor." A small smile. "Alfred was a Shakespearean actor once, and let’s just say wrestling wasn’t quite his style. But when things were really bad...when I was in the ring, the world made sense again, for a little while. I went through a long time of fighting stiff, hurting people for the sheer catharsis of it. But in Tibet I learned that wasn’t what I wanted to be. Ra’s--that was his name, my teacher--wanted me to do that for a living, but I couldn’t. In Tibet I realized that it was the stories I loved, not the pain. I wanted to be part of a great and never-ending story, an infinite battle against injustice and pain.” His chuckle had a bitter edge. “And as Leslie said, see where it’s got me.”

“We’ll get through this,” said Clark. He saw Bruce’s eyes warm at the plural and went on hurriedly, “I did some research on your injury, I know what you’re up against. It’s a lot of work, but people make full recoveries. And if anyone can, you can.” He met Bruce’s eyes. “And after that...we’ll see what you want.”

“What I want?” Bruce sounded puzzled.

“You know...if you want to go back to wrestling or not.”

Bruce’s eyes widened and he made a swift, involuntary movement, then winced. “Of course I want to go back! I’m not going to let a little thing like fused vertebrae keep me from wrestling.” Clark snorted, and he went on: “No, Clark, I fully intend to become one of those old grizzled wrestlers who just keeps coming back and having great matches, and no one knows how they do it, they just have to shrug and say, ‘Well, he’s a legend.’”

“I quit being the Kryptonian,” Clark said abruptly. 

Bruce nodded slightly. “Good. It’s time you started working on that face turn. The Kryptonian was never going to be a legend. Whatever you’re going to be next, that’s where your heart is. That’s going to be the legend. I _know_ it.”

“So we can be two ancient legends together?”

Bruce’s smile was slow and sleepy. “Two white-haired wrestling geezers, showing up twice a year to put on better matches than any of the younger generation, burning up the ring together. It’s a good future.” He yawned, then grimaced. “Sorry. It’s the painkillers, they tend to knock me out.”

“That’s fine,” said Clark, starting to stand up. “If you don’t mind, I’ll come back tomorrow and--”

“--No,” Bruce said. “Don’t go. I don’t want you to leave again.”

“I’ll stay as long as you want me here,” said Clark.

“Forever,” mumbled Bruce, and then he was asleep.

Clark watched him for a while--the bed was so big that even Bruce’s bulky frame seemed swallowed up in a sea of white--and then went to the door, his footsteps silent on the thick Persian rug.

He opened the door, staring out once more at the dark-paneled wood, the antiques on marble pedestals. He shook his head. The real Bruce Wayne all along. Unbelievable.

Alfred was waiting at the bottom of the steps. “Shall I prepare a cot for you, sir?”

Clark startled a bit. “A cot?”

“The bed is quite large, sir, but I’m sure you don’t wish to jostle Master Bruce.” 

“Of course not, but…”

“Thus I assumed a cot next to the bed was the best option.”

“Well, sure, but...how did you know I’d be staying? Were you listening to us?”

“Certainly not, sir!” Alfred looked faintly offended. “But I know Master Bruce, and so...I suspected you would not be leaving again.”

“Who could ever leave him once they knew him?”

Alfred nodded as though Clark had passed some test, as though they understood each other perfectly. “Exactly, sir.”

* * *

He woke from a jumbled, panicky dream in which he was wrestling and realized he’d gone to the ring without his costume, the sound of the crowd laughing still dinning in his ears.

“They’re really good,” Bruce said from the bed, gesturing at the television where Harley and Ivy were in the middle of the ring, tormenting the ring announcer to peals of laughter from the audience.

“Is that last night’s show?”

“I never really had time to explore it before, but the DCW app has an amazing amount of footage,” Bruce said. “Old matches, new content, and--”

“--only 9.99 a month,” Clark finished with him. The announcers’ constant shilling of the DCW app had become something of a running gag among the wrestlers lately. “I haven’t watched any wrestling for the last couple of weeks,” Clark said. “Well--nothing new.” He bit his lip and did not tell Bruce that he’d been re-watching the footage of his injury exclusively.

Bruce waved toward a door. “The bathroom’s there. Alfred put in some towels and a toothbrush.”

The bathroom was wall-to-wall marble and brass--Clark hoped the fixtures were brass and not gold, at least. As he undressed, Bruce’s voice came from the other room: “Could you open the door?”

Clark grabbed one of the impossibly luxurious towels and wrapped it around his waist. “Sure,” he said, opening the door. “Why?”

“I haven’t gotten a chance to watch your magnificent posterior for a couple of weeks now,” Bruce said. “I’m not missing the opportunity now.”

Clark attempted to look dignified with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, turning his back before loosening the towel and letting it drop to the floor. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” said Bruce with a lascivious tone to his voice. “I can’t wait until I’m well enough to do everything I want to do to you once more. Everything’s still working in _that_ area, you’ll be pleased to know.”

Clark frowned at him over his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure you should be working on walking again, not on…those kinds of things.”

Bruce made a rude noise. “The walking is going well,” he went on as Clark got into the shower and fiddled with the knobs. “Arm movement isn’t bad either. Dr. Kinsolving says she’s never had such a good patient. All right, such a _resilient_ patient,” he amended at Clark’s dubious look. “I admit I may have a tendency toward some slight crankiness.”

Clark swung the shower door closed as he raised an eyebrow, savoring the sound of Bruce’s laugh.

When he emerged, feeling scrubbed and fresh--there had been a new outfit in his exact size waiting next to the shower--Bruce had paused the screen and was waiting for him, a peculiar smile on his face. “You haven’t watched _anything_ for the last couple of weeks?” he asked.

“Nothing recent,” Clark hedged.

“Oh,” said Bruce, “Then you _need_ to watch this promo.” He unpaused the video.

Milton Fine, in his Brainiac carnival mind-reader outfit done up all in black, was standing in the ring, looking woeful. He wiped at his eyes as the crowd jeered, and kept raising the mic to his lips and then lowering it, too overcome to continue. Finally, he managed to rally enough to start speaking: “You know, of course, that the Kryptonian has--has left us,” he said.

The crowd muttered happily and Brainiac cast his eyes to the sky--or at least the rafters.

“He has abandoned us, his faithful followers, and left us alone! But here in our darkest hour, a savior has come to us.”

The lights started to dim and a brilliant spotlight picked Brainiac out; dry ice from beneath the ring curled tendrils of mist around him. Dramatic music started to play softly in the background, building slowly through Brainiac’s speech.

“Lo!” cried Brainiac. “I give to you a new master, a being superior to you all: his strength and power eclipsed only by his wisdom and foresight!”

He gestured to the top of the ramp.

“I present to you--the Son of the Kryptonian!”

A spotlight came up to reveal a figure standing at the top of the ramp, wearing something like the Kryptonian’s costume, but with an incongruous leather jacket slung over it. His hair was an unruly mop, and he was wearing small round sunglasses. He reached up and lowered the sunglasses to flash a blinding smile at the audience.

“What’s up, dudes?” he said.

Clark stared.

“Hey!” Bruce said as if he were choking down uncontrollable laughter, “And I thought _I_ had secrets--you never told me you had a son!”

* * *

“Stop pushing yourself so hard, Bruce,” said Dr. Shondra Kinsolving, making a note on her clipboard. “Resting is an important part of rehabilitation too, you know.”

“I don’t like _resting_ ,” Bruce said shortly. He was taking careful steps with some kind of high-tech walker, lifting and putting down his feet with some consideration between each step. “I didn’t hire you to help me _rest._ ”

“No,” said Kinsolving, “But you hired me to get you ready to wrestle again, and I’m telling you, if you push yourself too hard, that isn’t going to happen.” She cast a despairing look at Clark. “Tell him, Kent.”

“She has a point, Bruce,” said Clark.

Bruce made a growling noise, but stopped dragging himself forward. Clark jumped up and brought the wheelchair closer to him so he could lower himself into it.

“Thank you,” said Kinsolving. “It’s a good thing you decided to show up--he was driving himself far too hard before you got here. In comparison, he’s practically taking it easy now.” She cast Bruce a stern look. “ _Rest_. I’ll be back in the morning and we’ll work on those range-of-movement exercises for your arms.”

“I’m _bored_ ,” Bruce whined when she was gone. “Has your mother sent you back her latest take on your new costume?”

“Bruce, we only emailed her our feedback this morning.”

“That was _seven hours ago_.”

“She might have other things she had to do.” At Bruce’s incredulous look-- _something more important than wrestling? Impossible!_ \--Clark burst out laughing. “Honestly, you are such a _child_ when you’re injured.”

Bruce smiled, but there was a sad edge to it. “It’s being in this house,” he admitted. “I haven’t spent much time here in years. It makes me feel young again.” His tone made it clear that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“I hope we’re not being too much of a hassle to Alfred.”

“Are you kidding? He hasn’t been this happy in years.”

“Really?”

Bruce snorted. “He’s not the type to turn cartwheels, Clark. Trust me, he’s happy. Says it’s a pleasure to hear new voices around the Manor.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe…” Then he shook his head and pushed the wheelchair down the hall. “Never mind. A thought for later. Let’s watch some wrestling.”

“Oh God,” groaned Clark, “Are you going to make me watch the latest promo by the Metropolis Kid?”

“I might,” grinned Bruce. “Come on, I think he’s pretty great, actually. Fantastic sense of comedic timing.”

“Where did he even come from?”

“Clark, you scamp! Have there been so many conquests you don’t even--” Bruce broke off when Clark threatened to throw a pillow at him, “Oh, you mean outside of kayfabe. Well, I think he was wrestling in that Sora promotion Tim was working for; Tim told me he had talent. He had this whole gimmick going that he had ‘touch telekinesis’--lots of funny bits where he’d seem to throw people across the ring just by laying a finger on them. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lex snapped him up based on Tim’s opinion.”

“I thought he didn’t even know who Tim was.”

Bruce snorted as he pushed open the bedroom door with an effort--Clark resisted the temptation to help him with a different kind of effort. “He can say whatever he wants, but Lex knows Tim Drake has a sharp business mind and a good sense for talent. He might not think Tim will make a good wrestler, but he not only knows who he is, he’s keeping an eye on him.”

He started to say more, but when he turned on the screen the blue-and-black form of Nightwing filled the screen and he fell silent immediately. The crowd was rapt as Nightwing did handsprings and somersaults around the ring, leaving Killer Croc dizzy and nearly keeling over.

“He’s stepped up his game even more,” Bruce said as he sat down carefully on the bed, moving to rest against the headboard. “Amazing. I knew he had it in him, but it’s incredible to see it.”

“And yet you told Luthor to choose anyone but him to be the Dark Knight,” Clark said. “He was pretty angry at you about that.”

“Oh come on,” snorted Bruce. “If he thought about it for ten minutes he had to know the reason. It’s obvious.” But there was a fleeting worry in his face as he looked at Clark: _It was obvious? Right?_

“If he’d taken over as Dark Knight, pretending to be you, then his first championship would have been tainted. Asterisked. He’d be remembered as a fake belt-holder.”

A flicker of relief on Bruce’s face. “Exactly. His _first_ championship. He’ll have others. I didn’t want idiots on message boards to be able to say he cheated his way into the first one.” He watched Dick on the screen, pulling off an exquisite Northern Lights suplex that ended with his body bent into a perfect backwards arc, pinning Killer Croc for the win. “He deserves a clean record,” Bruce said as the crowd erupted in delight. “I wasn’t going to be responsible for ruining it before it even begins.” He cleared his throat. “Could you hand me a cookie?”

Clark picked up one of the cookies from one of the omnipresent plates that appeared wherever he and Bruce went--these were peanut butter, neatly criss-crossed with squares from a fork pressed into the dough--and gave it to Bruce, picking up his own to nibble on. On the screen, the announcer was introducing the next contestants: Sinestro and the Dark Knight. 

The cookie went tasteless in Clark’s mouth as he saw Jean Paul Valley enter in Bruce’s ring gear, the cape flowing around him. He had modified it, Clark noticed with an extra stab of annoyance, adding some kind of pauldrons that looked like armor on the shoulders. “He shouldn’t be changing your costume,” he muttered as Valley climbed into the ring.

“It’s natural,” Bruce said around a mouthful of cookie. “He needs to feel like it’s his own, not another man’s gear.”

As the Dark Knight and Sinestro grappled, Clark gritted his teeth in annoyance: couldn’t the audience _tell_ the man holding the belt was a pretender? He supposed that was part of the appeal of the storyline, that if you realized it wasn’t the usual Dark Knight you were looking forward to the eventual retribution.

Nothing personal against Jean Paul Valley, but Clark knew he knew he certainly was.

Bruce was frowning as he watched the match, and Clark couldn’t help wondering how much it bothered him as well, seeing someone in his gear, taking his name, wearing his belt. But his frown didn’t look annoyed, it looked...thoughtful. Puzzled. Like when he was trying to figure out a particularly difficult move.

At the end, Valley climbed up onto the turnbuckle as Sinestro lay writhing on the mat. Looking out at the crowd, he raised his arms and launched himself into space. Clark heard Bruce’s sharp intake of breath as Valley did a backflip in the air, adding a corkscrew turn before he landed. 

“What the hell was he thinking?” hissed Bruce. “A shooting star press is incredibly dangerous even without adding a corkscrew. He could have hurt himself. For God’s sake, Sinestro had to move to make sure he was in the right place, he was nearly falling short.”

“You don’t get so alarmed when I do a shooting star press,” Clark pointed out.

“That’s because you have the skill to do it,” Bruce said shortly, as if stating an obvious fact. “Valley’s a great technical wrestler, but he’s no aerialist. Why did he _do_ that?” 

He frowned at the screen for a full three minutes, unspeaking.

“Clark,” he said at last, “I need you to get back to the DCW.”

“I’ve only got five days left in my break,” Clark said. “I’ll go back--”

“I’m sorry,” said Bruce, “But I need you to go back now. Get Clark Kent, intrepid reporter, back on the job. I need you back in that locker room. I’ve just got a bad feeling about this.”

“Yes _sir,_ right away _sir,_ ” Clark snapped, feeling rather nettled. 

Bruce frowned. “It’s not that--”

“--You know, you’re not my boss,” Clark said. “Just because I know you’re filthy rich now doesn’t mean--”

“--Don’t make me come over there and kick you,” Bruce said with a self-deprecating gleam in his eye: _as if I could right now._ “I’m sorry I snapped at you, I wasn’t thinking. It’s just...I’m afraid someone’s going to get hurt, and I think you need to be back there. It’s not that I want you to leave. Far from it.”

Clark huffed an exasperated breath, but the heat was gone out of it. “You’ll respond to my texts?” he asked, pointing an accusing finger at Bruce.

Bruce crossed his heart. “I will.”

“You’ll talk to me on the phone every night?”

“Nothing could stop me.”

“I expect to come see you whenever we’re in the area.”

“You’d better.”

“And you’ll do as Dr. Kinsolving says and you won’t push yourself too hard?”

“Clark!” Bruce looked mock-appalled, as if Clark had finally gone beyond the pale.

“I shall remind him of your injunction when necessary, sir,” cut in Alfred, pausing in the door before coming in to pick up the plate of cookies, and Bruce groaned in surrender. “And I gather from this,” Alfred went on, “That Mr. Kent shall be leaving us in the morning?”

“Unless Bruce demands I leave this very minute,” Clark said.

“I think you can stay one more night,” Bruce said solemnly.

“I shall miss you, sir,” said Alfred. “It has been a long time since I have heard Master Bruce laugh as often as he has these last few weeks.” He nodded politely to Clark and took his leave.

“Well,” said Bruce. He was rather more pink in the cheeks than usual. “How should we spend our last night together for a while?”

“We could go over that list of different kinds of Kryptonite again,” said Clark. It had started as a lark, deciding different colors did different things, and since then had evolved into a rather complicated system.

“Actually,” said Bruce, “I was hoping you’d put the cot away and sleep next to me tonight. I’m doing so much better,” he said quickly as Clark opened his mouth. “I checked with Shondra and she gave me a checklist of activities that should be fine if we take it slow.”

“A checklist?”

“It’s in the nightstand.”

Clark pulled out the carefully-written list, his eyebrows rising as he read it. “I can’t believe you asked her about all of these things,” he said. “I’m never going to be able to face her again.”

“Sex is a fact of life, Clark. Doctors are unfazed by these things.”

“She said number 7 was okay? Really?” Clark gave Bruce a dubious look.

“Absolutely. I intend to start with number one and work my way down the list as far as we can get,” Bruce said. “Consider it rehabilitation.”

“I’m always glad to help with rehabilitation,” Clark murmured. He eased himself onto the bed, careful not to jar Bruce. “So...shall we take it from the top?”

There were fifteen items on the checklist. 

They got as far as number 11 before falling asleep in each other’s arms, sated and replete.


	45. This Be the Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark is back, but he discovers that tensions have been rising in the locker room of the DCW.

_ To be the offspring of a wrestler has its advantages at times, but it also comes with a tremendous amount of pressure. --Adam Kleinberg _

“Hey, Pops!”

Startled, Clark turned around to see the Metropolis Kid--he blanked on the real name for a moment before dredging up “Conner Crummet”--heading toward him. He hid a groan: his supposed progeny was not exactly the first wrestler he had hoped to run into upon returning to the DCW. But that wasn’t the kid’s fault, so he smiled at him. “Conner, right?”

Conner stuck out his hand and ducked his head, looking suddenly just a little bashful. “Hope you don’t mind no one ran that angle by you.”

“I’ve been pretty busy,” Clark admitted. “So, have you figured out exactly how, uh, we’re related?”

The boy beamed at him. “Get this: I’m a clone.” 

“A...clone.”

“Yeah! Well, not an exact clone. Kryptonian and human DNA combined, so I’m half-human.”

“Who’s the other DNA donor?”

“We don’t know yet. Lots of time to decide! Lots of cool possible angles!”

“You do know the Kryptonian isn’t coming back,” Clark said, but Conner just grinned.

“Not in the same form, sure. But everyone in the locker room is saying you’ll finally do a face turn. That’ll be _awesome_.” He gestured energetically. “I’m not going to be some _sidekick_ like Robin--not that there’s anything wrong with Robin,” he added hastily, “But it’s just not my jam, you know? My thing’s going to be that I don’t want anything to do with you, right? Like, I’m your clone but I want to be my own person, not your shadow.”

"That sounds fair."

"That means as long as you're a heel, if I want to be a rebel, I have to be some kind of goody-goody, right? Once you turn face, then I can be a tweener: you know, edgy dark lone wolf with a heart of gold? That's my scene, man!"

Clark looked at the sunny smile on Conner's face and had his doubts that "edgy" and "dark" really suited him, but kept them to himself. "I've been watching your work for the last few weeks. Your in-ring technique is great."

"You think so?" For a second, surprised delight blazed across Conner's face. Then he seemed to remember he didn't need Clark's approval and tried to look casual instead, keeping his voice nonchalant. "Thanks, man." He shrugged. "If you've got any tips, I might be willing to listen to them. I suppose."

"Clark!" He turned to see Dick and Tim coming toward them. Tim gave Conner a quick high five as they drew closer, and Dick threw his arms around Clark in a big hug, saying, "Are we glad to see _you_. How's Bruce? Will he be back soon?"

"Not for a while yet," Clark laughed. "He's doing well, his rehab is going great. Though he drives himself too hard."

Dick and Tim shared a glance. "There's a surprise," Tim said.

"Well, we could all tell he was doing better right away once you tracked him down," Dick said, "Because he began texting us all regularly again. So thanks for that."

"Look," Tim said, drawing closer and looking right and left before speaking. "Things...aren't so good around here right now. The month you guys were gone...without that locker-room leadership and inspiration, things have gotten kind of squirrelly. Jean Paul has tried to step up, but he's, uh--"

"Unstable?" muttered Conner.

"Under a lot of stress," Dick amended. "I mean, there are a lot of egos involved here, and he's not the kind of person who can keep people in line without ruffling a lot of feathers. The vacuum in backstage leadership has been a real problem."

"Well, Bruce will be back soon," Clark said reassuringly as he headed for the locker room. "Even if he isn't able to wrestle, he'll be around again, and that'll help."

Dick blinked at him. "Uh, that isn't who I meant," he said, but before he could go on Tim burst out as if he couldn’t contain himself anymore:

“ _Jesus,_ Dick,” said Tim. “There’s _finally_ someone here who might actually listen to us and help, this is not the time to be diplomatic! I know you want to keep the peace and lead by example, but Jean Paul is a _problem_ \--”

“--The only example you’re setting right now is how to take constant shit from someone,” Conner put in. “He treats you worse than anyone here, it’s like he’s got it out for you.”

“Bruce picked him instead of me to be the champion,” Dick said tightly. “It’s not my place to interfere.”

Tim started to say something else, but they were at the locker room door and he fell silent.

Even without Dick and Tim's warnings, Clark would have known right away something was wrong. People were changing clothes without making eye contact, clumped up into little groups and eyeing each other with suspicion. The entire feel of the locker room was askew: closed-off instead of open, sullen instead of energetic.

"Barbara says it's the same with the female wrestlers," Dick said in an undertone as Clark sat down on a bench, frowning. "It's been rough on the new kids--I wish Cass and Steph had come in at a better time."

"I've seen a couple of their matches. Bruce got really excited about them--though he says Brown needs to be less reckless in her moves. He likes the 'Aubergine Avenger' nickname a lot though. They're from Sora?" Clark asked Tim, who nodded proudly. "They've got a lot of promise. You're turning into a really good scout."

"They're probably the best women's tag team out there right now," said Dick as Tim beamed. Then he grimaced slightly. "Well, at least now that Ivy and Harley aren't speaking to each other."

"What?" Clark could hardly imagine the two women apart from each other.

"It's Napier's fault," Tim muttered. "Playing mind games with them, setting them against each other. If Bruce were here he'd tell him to--"

"Kent!" Jean Paul Valley's voice rang out and Clark jumped to his feet just in time to be swept up into a hug. "It's good to see you again. And how is Bruce? Will he be coming back to reclaim his belt soon?" There was a complicated mix of emotions in his voice: concern, yes, but below that Clark could hear reluctance, even hostility. And below even that--something like hope?

"His rehab is going well, Jean Paul," Clark said. He noticed various wrestlers were watching his reception by Jean Paul, noticed how some of their faces went shuttered and closed at seeing them hug. Jean Paul was making enemies backstage as belt-holder, it seemed.

"I'm glad to hear it. His were big shoes to fill." Jean Paul was smiling, but there was a strain in it. "Is it true that the Kryptonian is--"

He broke off as Copperhead entered the locker room and called out: "Nathan!"

Nathan Prince froze for a second, then kept heading to his locker. "Yeah, Valley?"

"You were late on that spot with Nightwing. He could have cracked his skull out there thanks to you."

"But I didn't, Jean Paul," said Dick, "It worked out fine."

Valley rounded on him. "Stop making excuses for him. Stop making excuses for _everyone_ ," he snapped. "Maybe your parents coddled you, but mine taught me how wrestle the _right_ way.” Clark saw Dick’s jaw clench as Valley shook a finger in his face. “Trust is everything. If you can't trust your partner, you're doomed. Trust must be earned, and if it's lost, a price must be paid." He turned back to Copperhead. "Meet me in the practice ring in fifteen minutes and we'll go over that spot until you get it right."

"Got it," said Nathan. He was smiling, but his forehead was beaded with fresh sweat. 

Clark frowned as Jean Paul gathered up his things and left the locker room.

"I know, I know," Dick said. "And if he wasn't twice as hard on himself as he is on everyone else..." He trailed off and shrugged, holding up a weary hand as if to forestall an argument from Tim that he’d heard many times before.

Conner shrugged. "I mean, we do put our bodies on the line, and if the person we're wrestling with messes up--look what happened with Bane and your mentor, huh?" He looked at Dick and Tim, eyebrows raised. "We've got to be at the top of our game all the time. Sure, he’s kind of off the rails, but he’s got a point."

"Kent!" Mercy Graves stood in the doorway of the locker room. "Mr. Luthor would like to see you."

"How'd he even know I was here already?" muttered Clark. "Never mind, I should know better."

* * *

"Dont bother to whine about how you won't play the Kryptonian, I already know that," said Luthor. "Have you finished your walkabout or vision quest or whatever it was? Are you ready to get back to wrestling?"

"I've got some ideas for a--"

"--let me guess, a face turn." Luthor rolled his eyes. "I still think it's a mistake, you know. I think you make a natural monster heel. But if you just can't handle it anymore, I'll let you commit career suicide if you must. The Kryptonian's been gone for a month and we've gotten by just fine. Ratings have actually gone up."

"Thanks to the new talent Tim Drake's scouted for you."

Luthor's face shadowed with a frown for a moment, then smoothed again. "Maybe. And maybe it's our new belt holder."

"I wanted to talk to you about Valley too," said Clark. "I don't think he's a good influence in the locker room."

Luthor almost smiled. "It's just like you, Kent, to think you can take off for a month to find yourself and then come back and start making pronouncements about influences in the locker room. Ratings are up, and that's the bottom line." He drummed his fingers on the desk briefly. "I assume you'd like to wait until Wayne gets back to turn the Kryptonian. He's always had some idea that the Dark Knight has to be involved in that face turn. I'll even allow that, because that's the kind of caring, empathetic boss I am." This time he did actually smile, but the result was not notably empathetic. "For now, we’ll be using you as a backstage interviewer. And Kent?”

Clark turned back from the door. “Yes?”

“Tell Bruce there’s no need to push his recovery. We’re doing just fine without him.”

As Clark let the door swing closed behind him, he didn’t feel so certain of that.

* * *

At the show next week, Clark slipped into his seat at the Baltimore Auditorium, looking up at the ring from the floor. He hadn't seen it from this position in years, he realized--it looked bigger here, more imposing. He was so used to it as a workplace that sometimes he forgot to think of it as a theatre. Next to him on one side was a middle-aged man and woman; on the other a frazzled mother with two small sons who were jumping up and down on the seats and screaming.

Maybe he needed to look at it from a different angle.

The children shrieked with joy when the Black Bat come out in a whisper of dry ice and an ominous murmur of music to fight Harley Quinn: "How can she even see well enough to fight in that mask?" said the couple to each other. "She's amazing." And she was: lithe and agile, she sold every blow as if it were utterly lethal. Clark watched, amazed afresh at the magic of the illusion, the way she and Harleen made it look as though this was a vicious battle, the cooperation and practice never allowed to shine through the facade of antagonism. There was one small slip, when Black Bat delivered the Mark of Cain, the Northern Lights suplex that was her trademark. Her timing was a fraction off and there was a moment when it looked like Harley was going to land on her neck, but she quickly compensated and pulled the move off. For such a young wrestler, she was amazingly skilled: no matter how closely Clark listened, he couldn’t hear any audibles being called by Quinn. It was as if Cain could simply _tell_ what the other wrestler was going to do before she did it and adjust accordingly, and Clark was probably more impressed than the fans around him, watching her.

Dick Grayson’s match against Deathstroke was also fantastic: all the people around him jumped to their feet when Nightwing’s music hit, and he could hear the young female fans behind him giggling with delight. Apparently they had brought homemade signs that said “I [heart] Dick” and were brandishing them with glee. 

“Deathstroke the Terminator,” said the guy on his right, “Could they have possibly come up with a _more_ 90s name?”

“I don’t care,” said the woman with him, “I think he’s hot.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The man rolled his eyes but stopped teasing her.

When the Dark Knight came out, Clark grimaced: Jean Paul had modified the costume again, adding red lenses behind the eyes of the mask and some kind of gauntlets to the gloves in addition to the spiked pauldrons. But the crowd didn’t seem to mind and their cheers shook the rafters as the Dark Knight systematically dismantled the Joker. It must have annoyed Napier to lose so resoundingly to the Dark Knight, and not even “his” Dark Knight--Clark saw his smile twist into a grimace at one point as the Dark Knight pulled his arm up behind his back, and he wondered just how stiff Valley was working. But the match was a good one, the crowd left buzzing with happiness, and Clark still had no concrete reason for the gnawing feeling of unpleasantness in the pit of his stomach.

When he got backstage, however, he was surprised to find Jean Paul Valley, still mostly in his Dark Knight gear, facing down a slight figure in an empty hallway. Clark had never seen Black Bat without her costume and full mask on, and only recognized Cassandra Cain from her stance: the way she stood with her feet planted firmly, fists slightly raised as if ready to take on all comers.

“--shouldn’t be allowed to do the move again until you’ve proven you won’t hurt anyone with it!” Jean Paul’s voice was strident. “I will not have some _child_ endangering the lives of other wrestlers. Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he demanded of Cassandra, who merely glared up at him, undaunted. “Go ahead, then, run off whining to Grayson as your lot always does.”

“Hey!” A young woman with curling blond hair appeared from around the corner and darted in between Cassandra and Jean Paul--Clark recognized her as Stephanie Brown. “You know she doesn’t talk much, so stop barking at her, you big bully!”

Cassandra put out a hand and gently moved Steph aside without taking her eyes off Valley. She patted her friend lightly on the shoulder, the message clear: _I can take care of myself._ Then she beckoned to Valley with her other hand, a taunt and an invitation.

Sputtering, Jean Paul stepped forward.

“What are you doing, Jean Paul?” Clark demanded, stepping forward, unable to stand by any longer. “I think you need to take a deep breath and relax, brother.”

Jean Paul glared at him, and for a moment Clark thought he might take a swing at him. “This is none of your business, Kent!”

“I have to work here too, so it’s my business.”

“Well, _some of us_ didn’t have the luxury of just leaving for a month,” snapped Jean Paul. _”Some of us_ had to stay here and hold things together with the belt-holder gone, and I didn’t see you stepping in then! Or are you jealous that Luthor didn’t put the belt on you? You’ve been working here longer than I have--does it hurt to be passed over? Did you think you’d be the natural choice, just like Grayson thought he was the obvious choice? Well, he wasn’t. Luthor picked _me_. I’m the one with the pull now, and you--and Grayson--had better accept it.”

Cassandra was still standing with her fists up, ready: Clark glanced at her and then at Steph, and she seemed to read his thoughts, taking Steph by the hand and dragging her away, despite Steph’s protests.

“I’m not jealous, Valley,” said Clark evenly, rolling up his sleeves. “And the reason I’m not jealous is because Bruce Wayne is still the champion, and you are holding the belt on a technicality. Why should I be envious of you? You’re no more the champion than I am.” He cocked his fists, looking at Jean Paul. “But if that fact makes you so angry that you feel like you have to hit something, try me instead of someone half your size.” He couldn’t help smiling slightly as he added, “I think your chances might be better with me anyway.”

Jean Paul stared at him, baffled fury and resentment roiling in his face. Then he took a deep breath and seemed to collapse in on himself. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. “It’s just...my father always told me I’d be champion one day, told me how I _had_ to be. I heard so many lectures about how the belt-holder has to be a leader, has to--to keep everyone in line. I’m trying, but it’s hard, and...and I hear my father’s voice in my head at night, chastising me, telling me I’m weak, I need to be stronger, I always need to be stronger…” He looked away, scrubbing at his face, and for a moment the hallway was silent. When he looked back, his face was set. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to any of the other wrestlers,” he said, and Clark didn’t know if he meant threatening Cassandra or admitting to his own doubts.

“I won’t tell anyone here,” Clark said. Jean Paul’s eyes flickered, but then he shrugged and shoved by Clark, disappearing into the locker room.

* * *

Bruce’s eyes were closed as Clark finished his summary of the last few weeks: “I think he’s trying to be fair, but he’s right on the edge, Bruce. He pushes himself and everyone too hard. He’s never gone quite far enough that anyone has called him out--you can tell some people want to, but he’s just reasonable enough that there’s no support for raising a stink about it. But that means everyone’s on pins and needles, nervous around each other. I don’t care how high the ratings are, that can’t be good.”

Bruce frowned and lay on the sofa, silent for so long that Clark thought he might have fallen asleep. “This be the verse,” he murmured.

Clark snorted and quoted the poem back at him: _“They mess you up, your mom and dad / They may not mean to, but they do.”_

 _”They fill you with the faults they had / And add some extra, just for you,”_ Bruce continued. He opened his eyes and smiled, dazzling. “But ‘mess’ was not the original verb,’ he noted.

Clark felt himself reddening. “You know I don’t like to use that kind of language,” he muttered, and Bruce laughed.

 _”...But they were fucked up in their turn / By fools in old-style hats and coats,”_ intoned Alfred’s voice as he entered the sitting room carrying mugs of cocoa. _”Who half the time were soppy-stern / And half at one another’s throats.”_ He raised an eyebrow at the expression on Clark and Bruce’s faces. “I do not believe in bowlderizing poetry, sirs.”

“Jean Paul Valley Sr. was a talented wrestler...and a terrible father,” said Bruce, sitting up gingerly and sipping his cocoa. “I’ve heard rumors of how he treated all four of his sons, the training regimen he put them through, the unrelenting pressure.”

“Have the others turned out as...unstable as our Mr. Valley?” Alfred asked.

Bruce cleared his throat. “The others are all dead,” he said. “Accidents, overdoses or suicides,” he said to Alfred’s shocked expression, “It can be hard to tell them apart, sometimes.”

“Good Lord,” Alfred said faintly.

“He’s gone now, but Jean Paul’s still fighting him every day,” Bruce said. “Trying to prove himself to a ghost. _Man hands on misery to man_ indeed,” he added softly. He drained his cocoa and reached out a hand to Clark. “Help me up,” he said. “I have to get back to rehab. I don’t think we have much time left.”


	46. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head with Jean Paul Valley as the Dark Knight.

_ One of the most ironic things about this business in that while it looks like we're competing in the ring, the truth is, that's the only time wrestlers are working together. It's in the back, in the dressing room, where the competition goes down. --Eddie Guerrero _

“I have missed this,” Diana said with a smile, raising her mug of coffee to Clark’s in a toast.

Clark lifted his mug to hers; the tiny _clink_ was nearly lost in the sound of the crowds bustling by. It was early summer, and Metropolis was awash in fresh green leaves and happy dogs and teens in tank tops. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said it was easy without you and Bruce around, but I’ve done my best to keep the women from having the kinds of schisms that are forming in the men’s locker room. Barbara helps a lot. Anyone who doesn’t happen to respect me respects Barbara--except Harley and Ivy.” Her mouth twisted. “I think they’ll come to their senses eventually, but for now dealing with the sulking and back-biting is a trial.” She shook her head, took a sip of coffee. “But it’s nothing like the problems on the men’s roster.”

“Dick won’t talk to me much about it,” said Clark.

“Of course he won’t. He feels like he can’t say anything strong against Jean Paul because Bruce gave his blessing for the belt to pass to him, but that doesn’t change the fact that the younger generation in particular sees him as a leader. They turn to him for advice.”

“And Valley holds it against him.”

Diana nodded. “It’s a bad situation.” She smiled at him over her coffee mug. “But I’m glad to have you to talk to about it again.”

* * *

“It’s hardest on Dick.” Bruce’s room was dark. Clark was lying next to him in bed--Alfred quietly packed the cot away some time ago, as Bruce’s recovery commenced. He wasn’t sure Bruce was awake, and then he heard Bruce’s voice, lower than a whisper:

“I know.”

“He’s trying,” Clark said. “But you didn’t choose him, so he can’t--he doesn’t feel like he can stand up to Valley.”

He heard a long, slow exhalation. “Dick has it in him to be the total package,” Bruce said. “A star in the ring, a leader in the locker room. But he’s not going to get there because I lay some bat-mantle on his shoulders. He’s got to step up on his own, without my support, or the other wrestlers will never accept him.” His hand found Clark’s in the darkness. “He’ll be greater than either of us one day,” he said. 

Clark rolled over carefully and pressed a kiss into Bruce’s bare collarbone. “For certain definitions of ‘greater,’ I suppose,” he said.

* * *

“The Metropolis Kid is a gift from Rao!” Milton Fine--Brainiac--enthused to Clark Kent in a backstage interview, projected onto the Jumbotron. He was dressed in his usual sideshow carny clothes: a cheap suit and a bowler. Clark tried to keep the smile off his face as Fine went on earnestly, “Rao’s the sun god of the Kryptonians, you know.”

“So I heard,” said Clark, who had come up with the name himself.

“Yes, this son of Krypton is here to guide us through these dark days!” Fine lifted his voice into the quavering register he used when really getting into a promo. “With his clarity and his wisdom, he will lead us when all our hope is gone, a strong and stern scion of his father, gazing upon us with pitiless--”

“‘Sup, Brainiac?” Conner wandered into the frame, wearing his sunglasses and a _lei_ of flowers. “I just got back from Hawaii, hope I’m not late for my match!”

Brainiac took in the sight of the Kryptonian’s heir and deflated visibly, leaving the scene with his shoulders slumped.

“He looks really stressed out,” the Metropolis Kid said to Clark. “He should take a vacation, don’t you think?”

Clark nodded, and the camera zoomed in on Conner’s concerned expression as he gazed after Brainiac.

* * *

“Can you believe this guy?” Tim said to Clark, pointing a thumb at a chagrined Conner as he sat down on the locker room bench. “You didn’t honestly think you could get that move approved, did you?” he said to Conner. “A top rope bodyscissors backflip into a back-to-back kneeling piledriver? Even Dick couldn’t pull that off.”

Conner shrugged. “Never know until you try,” he said. “I would’ve only done it with people I could really trust. You know, like you, if you ever get in the ring.”

Tim exhaled sharply. “As if. Especially now with Valley’s influence so strong.”

Clark frowned. “Have you pitched something to Luthor lately?”

“Just a few days ago. He says I’m not ready.” Tim punched his knee with his balled-up fist. “But really it’s all Valley. He says he doesn’t want to have to work with me, I’m a troublemaker.”

“You?”

Tim gave Clark a sour look. “My tendency to agree with Dick is not winning me brownie points with the current belt holder.” He punched his knee again. “But that’s fine, I don’t want to be Valley’s Robin anyway. Talk about a nightmare job. I suggested I be a Robin that teams up with Nightwing, and Luthor said that Nightwing stopped being Robin to be on his own, so it was dumb to saddle him with a partner.”

“He does have a point,” Conner said. “Narratively, I mean,” he added quickly when Tim glared at him.

“Well, I’m ready,” said Tim. “I’ll never be a big, bulky wrestler, but I’m ready to be out there in the ring. I just need Luthor--and Valley--to realize it.”

Conner clapped him on the back. “Soon, buddy.”

As it turned out, it was sooner than even they had expected.

* * *

Clark had finished his spot for that evening (a backstage interview with Barbara Gordon featuring a friendly run-in by her “two biggest fans,” Steph and Cass) and was playing solitaire in the common room when he heard Harvey Dent say “You’ve got to be kidding me” and a rustle of shock went across the room.

Clark looked up quickly to see the Dark Knight on the screen in all his current spiked and bristling glory, standing on the turnbuckle. Killer Croc lay on his back outside the ring, ready for the flying double foot stomp--not a risky move, but going it from the turnbuckle to the floor instead of the mat was always a challenge.

Except that Jean Paul wasn’t going to do the foot stomp.

“He’s not going to--” Selina’s words broke off in a gasp as Jean Paul launched himself from the turnbuckle away from the ring into a shooting star press: jumping forward and throwing in a backflip and a corkscrew for good measure. Clark caught a glimpse of Croc’s face shifting from startled to legitimately terrified as he shifted his body a few inches to the left to be in the right place, catching Valley has he finished his final rotation just in time.

_”Holy shit!”_ yelled Roy Harper as Valley rolled off of Croc and the referee scrambled to do a quick check. The common room was galvanized--people staring at the screen or chattering agitatedly with the person next to them: _Can you believe that? Jesus, he could have--_ Both wrestlers seemed okay, if breathless, and for a while they just lay there with their sides heaving as the fans cheered and screamed, waving at them. Valley staggered to his feet first and grabbed KIller Croc, dragging him to the ring for the pin. “One! Two! Three!” chanted the crowd as the bell rang and the match finished the way it was booked to end.

Croc jumped to his feet and shoved the Dark Knight angrily, and the crowd murmured. 

“Whoa there, Waylon, just let it go,” murmured Harvey Dent as Killer Croc cocked a fist, seemingly ready to deck the Dark Knight. The referee got in between them, and Clark could see real concern on his face as he pushed Waylon away from Valley.

Croc whirled and stalked out of the arena, glaring daggers at the booing fans as he went. The Dark Knight stayed behind in the ring to accept the cheers of the crowd for a moment, stoic and silent.

* * *

“You could have gotten us both _killed_!” Jones was yelling at Jean Paul Valley. Dick had ahold of his arm, keeping him from taking a swing at Valley. “You had no right doing that without telling me before!”

Valley had pulled the cowl off, revealing his bright yellow hair and steely eyes once more. “You saw it coming.”

“A damn stupid move like that--if you _had_ told me before, I never would have agreed.”

“And we would have missed out on a spot that will be on highlight reels forever.”

Jones swore angrily. “Don’t pull that kind of suicidal move on--”

Valley was across the locker room before anyone could even react, his arm across Jones’ chest, shoving him against the lockers. “Don’t you speak to me that way,” he said, his voice icy with anger.

“Hey!” Clark grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “That was a dangerous stunt, he has every right to be mad.”

“For once I agree with Kent,” came Lex Luthor’s voice as he walked into the locker room, his eyes fixed on Valley. “That kind of showboating isn’t impressive. It’s wasteful. The move looks as good delivered onto the mat. There’s no reason to make it stupidly dangerous.”

Valley whirled on him, the Dark Knight cloak swirling with the movement. “I’m the belt-holder,” he snarled, “And that means I have to do more, to _be_ more. I can’t rest on my laurels, I can’t get complacent, I always have to keep trying harder, being better, pushing myself.” He glared at Luthor, his breath coming short. “You don’t think I can do it. You don’t think I’m up to it. I’m just a replacement to you, just another cog in the machine to be switched out when it wears out. Well, I’m a human being who’s doing my best!” He slammed a fist against his chest, over his heart. “I’m not a machine, father!”

The last word fell heavily into the silent room. Luthor looked at Valley with narrowed eyes and said, “While I appreciate filial piety, I don’t have any sons that I know of.”

“I don’t--” For a moment, Valley looked almost lost. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Luthor made a small sound, caught somewhere between annoyance and understanding. “I suggest you figure it out before you speak to me again, then,” he said, and left the locker room.

Valley stared around the locker room, and his eyes locked on Clark’s. “You want to talk about dangerous stunts--at least all of mine have a _purpose_. It’s not just some glitzy self-aggrandizing entrance that could get you _killed_ and your life wasted for _nothing_.”

The locker room went silent, and into the silence Dick Grayson stood up. “What did you just say?” he said, and his voice was so calm it was unnerving. Clark started to step forward, to get in between them--and then he saw how everyone in the locker room was watching him. Waiting to see what he’d do.

With an effort, Clark took a step back.

Valley swung on Dick with a sneer: “Oh, the scion of the Sainted Flying Graysons is heard from at last! The Flying Graysons, with their circus gimmick, with their spangles and smiles and pretty trapeze acts. That’s where we’re different, _Grayson_ \--” he spat the name like it was an insult, and Clark watched Dick’s face go even more still, “--Your parents taught you that this life was all fun and games and applause. While _my_ father taught me that it was hard work and sacrifice!”

“Sacrifice?” Dick took a breath. “I guess your brothers would know a lot about that.”

Valley’s face twisted. _”How dare you!_ ” He swung at Dick, a haymaker powered by nothing but rage and pain, and Dick dodged it easily, grabbing his arm and shoving him into the locker face-first.

“Now you listen to me,” Dick said, punctuating his words by grinding Valley’s face into the locker. “And you listen good. I don’t _care_ that you’ve got the belt. I don’t _care_ that Bruce chose you to be the Dark Knight. And I _especially_ don’t care that you’ve got three inches and seventy pounds on me. You’re hurting people I care about, and you’re hurting a business that I care about, and you will. Stop it. Now.”

Valley pivoted and slammed himself up against Dick, pinning him between his bulk and the lockers even as Dick wrenched at his arm. He roared in rage as Dick pulled his arm backwards, hanging on doggedly. Everyone in the locker room made way for the brawlers--and a brawl it was: simple and ugly and totally removed from the kind of stylized fighting they all did in the ring. Jean Paul punched Dick in the face, a quick brutal jab, and Clark heard Tim groan. Blood pouring from his nose, Dick threw a punch in return and connected with Jean Paul’s eye. 

“Take back what you said about my father!” Jean Paul screamed, his fist cocked back to hit Dick again.

“I didn’t say a thing about your father,” Dick yelled at him. “Would you for the love of God _listen to yourself!_ ”

“That’s enough,” came a new voice from the door, and Clark sucked in a breath of shock as he turned to see Bruce standing in the doorway, looking at Jean Paul and Dick. “Jean Paul,” said Bruce, walking toward him carefully, eyes fixed on him. “It’s enough. Dick is right. Listen to yourself. Don’t listen to your father--listen to _yourself._ ”

Jean Paul stared at him as if he were a ghost. “I can’t,” he said, and it was nearly a sob. “I have to keep fighting. All the time. You don’t understand-- _I’m the only one left who can.”_

“But I do understand,” said Bruce. “And I’m telling you, you need to let it go. It’s time to take a breath and step away from it all for a little while. You need to find your own reason to be in the ring. Your own love for the art. Just--stop carrying that weight around all the time. Jean Paul,” he said, very gently. “Your brothers wouldn’t have wanted you to be in such pain.”

Valley’s eyes filled with tears, and he dragged a hand across his face. “God,” he said, a muffled word that was almost a prayer, and then he sat down hard on the locker room bench and buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

Bruce looked over him and met Dick’s eyes, and a long look passed between them. Then Bruce walked over--he was still limping slightly--and rested a hand on Dick’s shoulder for a moment. He leaned close and whispered something in Dick’s ear, too low to be heard, and Dick nodded shakily, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve. 

Dick stepped away from Bruce, and Clark noticed how many of the young wrestlers’ eyes followed him instead of his mentor.

“Well,” said Bruce, “Isn’t anyone going to welcome me back?”

A nervous ripple of laughter--it didn’t break the tension, but something eased from the room.

“Welcome back, Bruce,” said Dick.


	47. The Belt is Vacated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Knight is revealed to be Jean Paul Valley, leaving the championship belt without an owner. Who will hold it next? Luthor has a plan...

_ Promoters have to be part casting agent, part scriptwriter, and part enforcer, deciding not merely who wins each match, but the manner of the win and the way it lays the foundation for the next match. The story arc is the bloodstream of the promotion, a current that leaves some talents mired at the bottom of the card and others carried to the top. Mixing and matching wrestlers is an art form in itself, since it has to factor in elements like personal chemistry, style, and fan appeal. --Shaun Assael _

“Just keep it clean,” said Bruce, clapping Dick Grayson on either shoulder. “Don’t let it get personal.”

Dick looked grim, but managed a smile. “I won’t make it personal if he doesn’t make it personal.”

“Dick…”

“Bruce, he said things about my parents I _can’t_ forgive him for. I’m a professional, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy to be facing him in the ring. The sooner this is over, the better.”

Clark watched Dick stalk away, stiff-legged as an angry cat. “Are you sure it’ll be okay? Jean Paul and Dick in the ring together?”

“Jean Paul knows this is how the story needs to end,” Bruce said. “I think he’s...at peace with this.” He contemplated that statement for a moment. “I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him at peace.”

* * *

“...this is not the Dark Knight I worked with!” Nightwing’s voice echoed through the hushed arena. “This is not the Dark Knight who was a mentor to me--who was like a father to me!” He turned in a circle, glaring off into shadows. “And if you are not the true Dark Knight, that belt you wear around your waist was never yours! I demand you come out and face me, you pretender! You imposter! You sham champion!”

From her perch on the back of the couch, Selina made an uncomfortable noise. “I’m not sure I’d go goading him quite so much,” she muttered. 

Since his blow-up in the locker room, Jean Paul had made himself scarce; he had gone to Luthor’s office and they had talked together behind closed doors for a long time. Then Luthor had talked to Dick Grayson behind closed doors for a long time. “He wants me to be the Dark Knight,” Dick had said to Clark and Bruce after, sounding dazed. “Valley will vacate the belt and I’ll pick up the cowl.” He gave Bruce a rather worried look. “If you were ready to wrestle, I would never--”

His voice cut off as Bruce threw his arms around him. “You’ll be a great Dark Knight, Dick,” he said. “At least until I come back,” he added, cuffing Dick on the shoulder.

Clark shook off the memory of the tears in Dick’s eyes to watch Nightwing’s wary glare follow the Dark Knight as he stalked to the ring, all spikes and malice. Valley had added, as the final touch, golden claws to his gloves: they glinted as he silently pointed at Nightwing, a threat and a challenge.

“All right,” Nightwing yelled, “Come here and fight me, you coward!”

The Dark Knight climbed into the ring and the bell rang as they locked up.

As Dick had promised, the match stayed professional, though there was a leashed ferocity in both men’s moves that indicated that their grudges were far from forgotten. Watching them, Clark felt sadness wash over him: the greatest matches were always intimate, fluid, the result of two souls working in harmony. This match would be memorable for the storyline it capped and the storyline it launched, but the fight itself was devoid of passion between the wrestlers. There was no connection, no transcendence, no catharsis.

“Such a waste,” Bruce murmured next to him, and Clark looked over in surprise to hear his thoughts echoed. “They could have been so great together.”

Clark reached over and wrapped his fingers around Bruce’s. He felt the tendons beneath his touch tense, felt the reflex to push away in public galvanize Bruce’s muscles.

Then Bruce took a deep breath and smiled at him. And didn’t break the touch.

The Dark Knight had Nightwing on the ropes, the heavy armored blows leaving him reeling. But Nightwing came back, his agility making it possible to dodge the slower Dark Knight with a series of breathtaking moves that left the audience gasping. Nightwing nearly pinned his opponent once, then twice; the audience counted with the ref in a frenzy, groaning when the Dark Knight got his shoulders up and pushed Nightwing off. 

The Knight was clearly growing frustrated, even worried. He lashed out and managed to catch Nightwing in a submission hold, twisting his legs under him; but with a desperate burst of strength Nightwing managed to make it to the ropes and grab one of them. The ref gestured to release the hold, and for a moment the Dark Knight did nothing but glower at him without letting go of Nightwing. The ref quailed, but insisted that the hold had to be broken, and with a snarl of frustration the Dark Knight let him go.

It took Nightwing a moment to recover from the brutal hold, but he finally backed the Dark Knight into a corner, then retreated to the far corner to unleash a series of backflips that should have ended with a blistering kick to the head. 

But at the last second, the Dark Knight countered the move, sending Nightwing spinning into the referee. The ref fell over, seemingly unconscious, and the crowd gasped: moments when the referee was distracted or unconscious were always the most fraught of any match, a chance for foul play to go unseen or pins to go uncounted.

Nightwing staggered to his feet, and the Dark Knight, looking at the unconscious referee, grabbed the championship belt up from the corner and smashed Nightwing in the face with it.

A ripple of shock went through the audience as Dick reeled backwards; when he raised his head again blood was trickling profusely from a cut in his forehead, gashed there by the heavy metal belt.

Dick smiled slowly, and Clark could see the glee sparkling in the eyes behind his mask. "Always the showman," murmured Bruce next to him. "He knows getting some color is the best possible visual." His voice was cool and objective, but his hand had tightened on Clark's at the sight of Dick's bloody face.

The two of them stood there in a frozen tableau for a long moment as the crowd growled for vengeance against this villainous deed. Dick let the blood pool and drip until it was streaking down his face like tears, and then he raised his voice and the arena instantly fell silent to hear his words:

"You have tainted the belt with your cowardly act," he said, and the Dark Knight looked down at the belt, at the smudge of scarlet smeared across the etched gold. "If you have ever valued what that belt stands for, be honest--do you truly feel that you deserve to wear it?" He leveled an accusing finger at the Dark Knight, standing stock-still in the middle of the ring. _"Do you feel that you deserve to wear that cowl?"_

After a long, silent moment, the Dark Knight knelt and put the belt down in the middle of the ring. For a long moment he looked down at it. Then he lifted his hands and removed the cowl as well.

The crowd murmured with outrage as Jean Paul Valley's golden hair and rugged face were revealed: they didn't know the true identity of the Dark Knight, but they knew the former Azrael wasn’t him. Jean Paul put the cowl down next to the belt, then looked at Nightwing for a long moment before turning and leaving the ring, ushered out by the boos of the crowd.

With Jean Paul gone, the jeers died down to a hush as attention turned back to Nightwing, standing alone in the ring. Moving to the center, Nightwing looked down at the belt and the cowl. The arena lighting darkened slowly, leaving him in a spotlight like moonlight, and Clark smiled, thinking of Tim directing the lighting crew in the back.

The cameras zoomed close enough to catch the small smile on Nightwing's face. Then, ignoring the belt, he stooped to pick up the cowl.

He held the cowl in front of him, looking into its blank eyes, and a chant started in the crowd: low at first, but gaining steadily in strength until it rang in the rafters.

"Put it on! Put it on! _Put it on!_ "

Nightwing gazed up into the darkness, resolution etched into every line of his bloodied face. That was where the broadcast would end, Clark knew; the arena lights dimmed shortly after and Dick slipped away in the darkness.

"Nice cliffhanger," Bruce said as a smattering of spontaneous applause broke out in the common room. "Good work," he added as Dick came into the room, a hastily-taped bandage over one eye. The applause strengthened at the sight of him, and Selina made a sharp wolf whistle of appreciation. 

"Where's Jean Paul?" said Clark.

Dick shrugged. "He took off already. Walked from the ring out into the night."

"In full gear?" Bruce shook his head with a wry chuckle. "And here I thought I had a lock on Most Melodramatic Wrestler in the DCW."

“Congratulations on becoming the new Dark Knight,” Lex Luthor said to Dick, strolling into the room. “Now we just need to figure out what to do with this.” He hoisted the heavy golden championship belt above his head, and everyone’s eyes followed it. “Technically it belongs to Bruce, of course, but he’s not healed yet and I’m not going to go without a champion until he comes back.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Bruce said.

Luthor ignored him. “But since it’s been vacated, I can’t just hand it to a random person, either. So what we’re going to do is have a tournament to determine the new belt holder.”

He patted the belt and for a moment there was silence in the common room. Then Bruce said what they all were thinking:

“And who’s going to win?”

Luthor’s mouth curled at the edges. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said.

* * *

“No,” said Bruce, “I think he means it.” He swirled his coffee around in the mug, watching it intently.

“Oh come _on._ That’s just bad booking,” said Tim. He and the rest of the group that were becoming known as the “bat-clan” were sitting at a local coffeeshop, talking over Luthor’s decision in quiet voices. “Don’t start a storyline if you don’t know where it’s going to end.”

“Look,” said Clark, leaning forward, “The roster’s a mess right now. With Bruce, Jean Paul and the Kryptonian currently not wrestling, he’s lost three of his best contenders. Hal, John, and Sinestro have all held the belt too recently. Most of the rest of the roster doesn’t have the look that he likes in his champions--I know it’s ridiculous,” he said to Steph as she rolled her eyes, “But it’s established fact that he prefers big, muscular, clean-cut guys. Well, he’s going to have to try something new. I think he _wants_ to try something new, but he doesn’t know what will work.”

Barbara’s eyes were narrowed, considering. “So he’s going to have a tournament--not to determine who the best wrestler is, but to determine who gets the strongest crowd reaction.”

Clark nodded. “He wants to see who can energize the audience best.”

“Waiting until the last second like that--that’s _crazy,_ ” said Steph.

“Or brilliant. Or both,” mused Bruce. He looked at Clark, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Either way, I’m just sorry we won’t be a part of it.”

“Such bullshit,” came a voice behind Bruce, and Jason Todd turned around to grin at all of them. “Good to see you back, old man,” he added to Bruce, and they clasped hands briefly.

“He always shows up when we get together,” complained Steph loudly. “It’s as if _someone_ is telling him where we are.”

Tim had the good grace to look sheepish.

_”As I was saying,”_ Jason said, “Don’t give me that bullshit about you not being part of the action, Bruce. You’ll find a way to be part of the drama, and you know it.”

Bruce lifted his coffee cup to his lips and smiled enigmatically behind the rim, his eyes meeting Clark’s. “If things go as I expect,” he said, “I won’t have much choice.”

And that was all he would say on the subject.


	48. Wrestling a Broomstick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tournament to determine the future belt-holder of the DCW begins--and Dick Grayson isn't in it! The crowd is restless...

_Kota Ibushi had a match with a blow-up doll. Ibushi--and this is where I credit him with being an unbelievable wrestler--he structured it in the sense of this five-star masterpiece, an epic battle. It’s about twenty-five minutes long--he went twenty-five minutes with a doll. Think about that. By himself. By the end of the match you forget it’s a doll. It’s the old standard, you know, “So and so could wrestle a broomstick.” --Sami Zayn_

Lex Luthor stood in the middle of the ring, resplendent in a dazzling white suit, purple shirt, and poison-green tie. The spotlights turned him incandescent as he took the mic away from a sweating, nervous Clark Kent and addressed the audience:

“As you know, last week witnessed a shocking turn of events here at the DCW. The man who we _thought_ had been the Dark Knight, the current belt-holder, was revealed to be the vigilante known as Azrael, posing as the champion!”

He waited for a moment for the boos to die down.

“Azrael has, of course, been stripped of the championship, and the belt has been vacated. The whereabouts of the real Dark Knight remain unknown, and we here at the DCW can only hope that he’ll return to us safe and sound someday.” Lex cast pious eyes upward in entreaty, and Clark had to resist the urge to roll his own, imagining Bruce’s disdainful snort in reaction backstage. “But right now that means that the DCW has no champion,” Luthor went on.

The crowd murmured in anticipation.

“So I am here to announce to you that for the next month, we will be holding a tournament, and the winner will be the new DCW champion!” He gestured with a flourish at the Jumbotron screen, and a graphic of a blank tournament bracket appeared on it. “And the competitors, chosen from our finest wrestlers, are…” He paused and beamed toothily at the crowd, taking a moment to let the suspense build.

And in that moment, a chant began: low at first but quickly gaining in momentum.

“Grayson. Grayson. Grayson! _Grayson!_ ”

From his vantage point as the hapless interviewer, Clark saw Luthor frown for a second before he started to list names, speaking over the chants. The names appeared on the screen to fill in the brackets: Killer Croc, Two-Face, Captain Marvel, El Dragón, the Metropolis Kid. With each name, a smattering of cheers or boos would ripple around the arena--but the “Grayson” chants continued to build, until Luthor was pretty much shouting names over it: “Copperhead! Arnold Wesker! And--”

He cut off, rolling his eyes with annoyance, as the Joker’s music hit and the Clown Prince of Wrestling strutted down to the ring in a purple lamé tuxedo.

“Lexy, Lexy, Sexy Lexy!” crooned Napier, leaning in far too close. “You’ve listed seven people, and I’m _certain_ the last name on the list is _moi_ ’s, correct?”

“Well now.” Luthor assembled a look that was nine parts bravado and one part nervous as he backed away from the Joker. The crowd was still chanting for “Grayson!” and he used that to pretend he couldn’t hear the Joker, cupping his hand to his ear and miming exaggerated chagrin as he got out of the ring and headed up the ramp, followed closely by Joker and a still-flustered Clark Kent protesting that “The interview isn’t over, sir!”

At the top of the ramp, Joker seized Luthor’s arm: “No, Lex, I really, _really_ would like to hear that last name!”

Luthor wrenched away and hurried backstage, the camera crew following after in the inexplicable way professional wrestling camera crews will. The crowd jeered and chanted as the Jumbotron showed a hassled Luthor making his way through the backstage corridors, brushing past staff as he was pursued by an insistent Joker. Finally, he turned to face Napier like a fox brought to bay by a particularly persistent hound: “OK, Joker, the eighth person is...is…” He looked around wildly, clearly unwilling to cave and name Napier, and his eye fell on the lighting crew, hunched over the equipment. “You!” he yelled.

Tim Drake looked up, startled. “Yes, sir?”

“You, skinny kid. You want to wrestle, right?”

“Um, of course I do,” Tim said as Napier danced with frustration at the edge of the camera. Clark could hear ripples of distant laughter from the arena at the tableau laid out before them on the screen: the harried Luthor, the wide-eyed Drake, the exasperated Napier.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Drake,” stammered Tim. “Tim Drake.”

“Congratulations,” Luthor said, lunging forward to shake his hand. “You’re the eighth member of the tournament!”

Tim blinked at him, more horrified than thrilled. “What?”

“Yeah, yeah. Can’t you hear the audience calling for you?” Luthor threw an arm out. “They’re yelling Drake! Drake! Drake!”

Tim grimaced. “I think that’s _Dick! Dick! Dick!_ , sir.” Which was true, but Clark noticed that a ragged cheer had gone up at Luthor’s words: apparently fans of Sora, the little independent promotion Tim had been wrestling in.

_”Don’t argue with me,”_ snapped Luthor. “Now get yourself a ring gear, and a better name--try to aim for something a little more aggressive than ‘Drake.’ Isn’t that a duck? Or a reggae singer or something?”

“It’s a drag--okay, sir, yes,” said Tim.

“You wrestle next week.” He eyed Tim critically. “You might want to work out a little, too,” he said before striding off.

“You,” said Napier, closing in on Tim, dropping his voice to the menacing whisper that made children cry in their sleep. “”You’ve kept me from being in the tournament.” Tim swallowed hard, unnerved, and tried to sidle away from him, but Napier grabbed his arm. “I’ll remember your name, Deke.”

“Hey!” Tim yelled after him, his fear overcome for a moment by pride. “It’s Drake!”

* * *

“It was a great promo, Tim,” said Bruce, stripping off his shirt and dropping it in the corner of the practice ring of the DCW gym. He beckoned to Clark with an ironic smile and Clark climbed into the ring to join him. Selina and Barbara were running through their next match in the other ring while Ivy yelled advice at them; elsewhere in the gym people were working out or watching old matches on the monitors.

“Did you hear how they were chanting for Dick, though?” Tim’s eyes were starry. “And he hasn’t even debuted as the Dark Knight yet! They’re gonna go _crazy_ next week. I just hope Luthor heard them.”

“I could hardly avoid it,” drawled a dry voice. Luthor ambled into the gym, casting as always a proprietary, pleased glance around it first. “I should think you’d be more excited about your first match.”

“Dick’s more important than I am,” Tim said with a fervor that made Luthor chuckle condescendingly.

“We’ll see if they can keep their enthusiasm when he officially debuts as the Dark Knight,” Luthor said. “They think it’s a great idea now, but we’ll see how it is in practice, having a cruiserweight as the Dark Knight.”

“Weight doesn’t matter,” Tim shot back. “What matters is charisma and skill, and you know it. That’s why Dick is the best choice for the DCW champion.”

Luthor sighed, loud and exasperated--but to Clark’s surprise, he continued to argue with Tim. “It’s not _believable._ The audience will never buy that someone so small can hold his own in the ring against a huge guy like Killer Croc or Bane. It’ll make a joke of the belt.” Tim opened his mouth again, but Luthor cut him off with a _shushing_ gesture. “This discussion is over,” he said, and turned away as if Tim had ceased to exist. “About time you showed up to shake off some of that ring rust,” he said to Bruce just as if he weren’t the person who had told him not to come back before he was ready.

Bruce shrugged and gestured to Clark without answering Lex. “I’m sure Luthor wants to see if I’m up to speed yet, so let’s show the man, shall we?”

“Ding ding ding!” yelled Ivy, looking over at them, and there was a smattering of applause as Clark moved forward and Bruce sidled to the left, avoiding him. They circled in the ring as if wary of each other, both reaching forward as if trying to grapple the other, their hands colliding and pushing at each other. The wariness was only partially faked--Bruce had a practice ring as good as this one in the basement of Wayne Manor (Clark wasn’t sure why he had been surprised to find that out, because of _course_ he did), and they’d gone a few rounds recently. But doing it here in public, in front of everyone--Clark felt a sudden irrational fear that he was going to damage Bruce’s neck again, and had to grit his teeth to move past the initial circling. Only the flash of irritation in Bruce’s eyes-- _I know you’re stalling, now quit it_ \--pushed him past his reluctance.

A quick feint to the right and a dash to the left, and he grabbed Bruce in an armlock. Bruce yelled in pain and all activity in the gym stopped for a moment as everyone looked at them: _Thanks a lot, Bruce,_ Clark thought as Bruce looked up at him and winked before rolling into a somersault, countering the armlock and throwing Clark on his back. As Clark jumped to his feet, Bruce threw himself against the ropes and Clark came up right into a dropkick that slammed him back down again.

It seemed more work than usual--neither of them had wrestled in front of an audience for too long, and that sense of telepathy between them wasn’t as free and open as usual. But it was still there, a riverbed choked with leaves that a wash of water would clear once more; the rock and stone of it was part of who they were now.

As Clark climbed slowly to his feet, shaking his head like he was dazed, Bruce tapped his shoulder three times. It could have looked like he was just sore, but he met Clark’s eyes briefly while doing it. Following his lead, Clark threw himself at Bruce, and when Bruce dodged he ricocheted off the ropes beyond him, throwing a vicious-looking shoulder tackle that left Bruce sprawled on the mat. Bruce leapt to his feet just in time to intercept another shoulder tackle, and then another. The third time he didn’t get up, and Clark put his foot on his neck, gloating.

Bruce glared up at him, and for a moment they just stood there, a portrait of cruelty and courage.

“Not bad,” said Luthor, and Clark broke the pose as Bruce sat up. “That dropkick was a beat slow, though.”

Bruce nodded. “It was.”

“You think you’ll be ready to enter an angle by the time the tournament is over?”

Bruce nodded again, and Luthor rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “An angle with Kent makes sense. You two work well together, so less chance of re-injuring yourself. And since Kent refuses to play a heel any longer--” An annoyed glare at Clark. “--We can use that angle to turn the Kryptonian face. If you still want,” he said to Clark.

“I won’t play the Kryptonian as heel again,” said Clark, crossing his arms.

Luthor shrugged. “Work out the details and run them by me, then. I’ll be damned if I let my bookers waste time on a storyline like that.”

“You realize he’s basically just given us free rein to book your face turn however we want,” Bruce said in a low voice as Luthor strolled over to watch Selina and Barbara practice.

“But god forbid he not sound like a jerk while doing it,” Clark murmured back.

* * *

“The following contest is for one fall, and the winner will advance in the tournament for the DCW title! In this corner, we have...Arnold Wesker!”

“No, no, no,” said Wesker, stepping forward. “I don’t wrestle. I’m just a manager for Mr. Scarface.” He held up the puppet dressed like a gangster, and “Mr. Scarface’s” mouth moved as a brusque, angry voice boomed out:

“Dummy’s right! I’m the rassler here! You call _my_ name, babe!”

The ring announcer looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. “In this corner, weighing in at...I’m guessing, ten or fifteen pounds? Scarface!”

Scarface raised his arms and preened for the audience’s boos.

“And his opponent, weighing in at a hundred and seventy pounds, from Gotham City…” She paused, nonplussed again, and turned to the figure cloaked in black. “What was your name again, son?”

Tim Drake straightened to address the crowd. “I’m here because there’s a new Dark Knight, and he needs a friend. So you can call me…” He threw off his robe to reveal his red ring gear. “Red Robin!”

Despite the dramatic reveal, the crowd’s applause was polite and perfunctory as the slender unknown stepped forward and had his first match.

With a puppet.

The crowd started to laugh as Red Robin grabbed Scarface away from Wesker and threw him to the mat. He pinned him quickly, but at the two-count Tim hurled himself backwards and away as if the puppet had broken the pin and tossed him off. The illusion was utterly convincing, and the audience gasped in surprise.

Tim hung on the ropes for a second, mouth agape as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened, and from the apron Wesker called out shrilly in support of Mr. Scarface. Red Robin threw himself forward as if to pin Scarface again--and with a quick handspring Tim made it look as if the puppet had reversed the attack and tossed him to the other side of the ring. A ripple of appreciative applause went around the arena, but Red Robin had no time to acknowledge it as he began to approach his opponent again--this time carefully, warily. But his caution was in vain, because this time when he closed on Scarface the puppet managed to get his arms around Red Robin’s neck, and Tim sold the chokehold for all it was worth, struggling wildly with his arms flailing. He reached desperately for the ropes, miming Scarface pulling him back away from them once, twice, three times--until his groping hand managed to grab a rope and Scarface was “forced” to release the hold, his blank staring grin oddly malign as he fell to the mat.

Around the ring they went again, with Red Robin seemingly fighting a heroic losing battle against the increasingly creepy puppet as Tim went through the motions of combat. The crowd--almost against their will--started to accept the illusion, cheering for Red Robin when it looked like he might defeat Scarface. By the close of the match--a series of Canadian destroyer flips in which Scarface seemed to be tossing a helpless Red Robin around the ring--the crowd was laughing and screaming in equal measure, booing Wesker and exhorting Red Robin to not give up. The young hero looked exhausted as he lay under the cruel pin of the demonic puppet, sweat pouring off his face and his sides heaving. Clark knew that weariness was entirely unfeigned--usually in a match you could count on your “opponent” to help out, but here, Tim was doing all the work.

The referee counted: “One! Two! Th--” and at the last second Red Robin managed to get one shoulder up and break the pin.

The crowd stood up to cheer, completely lost in the illusion.

And a skinny figure in purple suddenly slithered out from under the ring and loomed over Red Robin.

The audience shrieked as the Joker put a white shoe on Red Robin’s chest and shoved him to the mat, leaning down to pick up Scarface. “I don’t think so,” he cackled into the puppet’s face. “I want the satisfaction of beating this upstart myself.”

With a sharp motion, he ripped Scarface’s head from his shoulders.

Clark heard high-pitched screams from a scattering of children who had come, at some level, to believe that Scarface was sentient, and grimaced in sympathy for the scores of parents having to deal with nightmares of the Joker hiding under children’s beds tonight.

Joker tossed the broken bits of Scarface at a gibbering Wesker, then turned his attention to Red Robin. “You,” he said, grinding his foot into Robin’s chest. “You took my spot. So now I think I’ll make _you_ nothing more than a greasy spot on the mat. That seems only fair and right, doesn’t it? _Doesn’t it?”_ He pressed down harder and Tim choked and gasped, scrabbling at the mat. There was a horrible, tense moment, a long silence broken only by the low rolling horror of the crowd.

When the Dark Knight’s music finally hit, Clark felt relief wash through him. And he had known it was going to happen! He heard himself chuckle weakly and felt Bruce’s hand clap his shoulder, neither of them looking away from the monitor showing Dick Grayson as the Dark Knight descend the ramp at last to face down the Joker.

Gone were the spikes and armor of Azrael’s tenure, but the costume wasn’t quite the same as when Bruce had worn it, either: midnight blue instead of black, silky instead of matte, it flattered his leaner, less bulky physique and made him look fluid and graceful.

He didn’t waste time with words, throwing himself into the ring in the defense of Red Robin as if the joyous shrieks of the crowd were fuel for a fire within. Red Robin rolled out of the way as the two careened around the ring, punching and kicking in a frenzy as Joker’s laugh rang out over the crowd, spurring them to new heights. They even ignored Lex Luthor’s music when it started, and eventually had to be pulled apart by six referees as Luthor made his way down the ramp.

“Joker,” Luthor said, nodding to the man being restrained by three people. “And...you’re supposed to be the Dark Knight now?” he said, looking Dick Grayson over. “I guess they’ve had to lower their standards after the last two washed out.”

A growling mutter of anger rumpled the crowd, and a scattered chant of “Grayson! Grayson!” started. Luthor flung one hand up in exasperation: “Oh, _shut up,_ ” he snarled at them.

The chants grew like raindrops coming together on a window pane, gaining momentum, flowing down to the ring like pure energy.

Luthor looked from the groaning Red Robin to the sobbing Wesker cradling the broken puppet. “Well, we’ve got two competitors in no shape to advance. Red Robin needs to go to the hospital and Scarface--” He grimaced, “I dunno, do we have a wood shop or something?” He dismissed them both with a wave and turned to Joker and the Dark Knight. “You two seem to have unfinished business!” he barked. “Well, you can finish it in two weeks--when you can have it out to see which of you get to advance in the tournament for the DCW championship!”

The boos transmuted magically to cheers, and Luthor waited just long enough to let their crest break over them like a wave.

“You!” he pointed at Joker, and the cheers were abruptly boos again, raining down on the clown. “I expect to see you knock some sense into this pretender.” The pointing finger switched to the Dark Knight, and the crowd lit up once more.

_I can keep this up all night,_ Luthor’s small smile said. _I can play you all like a harp._ But he stopped there--with a gesture, his music started back up, and he strutted out of the ring and up the ramp. The Dark Knight went to check on Red Robin and help him slowly limp up the ramp--they turned at the top and waved at the crowd together, Dick’s arm around Tim’s shoulder, and the crowd reverberated love back to them.

Arnold Wesker was still begging for a stretcher for Scarface as they cut to commercial.

* * *

“Tim!” Conner’s hug lifted Tim Drake up off the floor in its enthusiasm. “What a match, buddy. I’m just sorry you’re out of the tournament.”

“Eh.” Tim shrugged. “It’s not often you get to debut in a championship tournament, you know? And it’s not like I would have gone very far. No one knows me.”

“That’s going to change,” Conner said.

“Has Luthor told you yet who’s going over in the match between you and Two-Face next week?”

“Nah, but come on.” Conner shrugged. “You’ve heard the heat he gets when he shows up. I just want to have a good match against him. I haven’t come into my own yet, but that’s gonna change soon, right, ‘Dad’?” he said with a broad wink at Clark.

Clark laughed. “I hope so.” It was his secret dream to have an actual face faction--they were rare, most factions were of heels, with faces more likely to be loners. But he thought he could do it.

“You know,” said Conner, “I’ve been thinking. You know how we haven’t decided who my other clone-parent is? Well, remember how Jean Paul accidentally called Luthor his father and Luthor said he didn’t have any sons?” Clark nodded, puzzled. “Well, that was kind of a tense moment so it didn’t seem right to mention it then, but it got me thinking…”

Once he was done explaining his idea, Clark laughed for quite a while. “Okay,” he said, wiping his eyes, “You’ve sold me. Now if you can convince _Luthor_ to go through with it, you’ve got yourself an angle.”

“Hot _dog!_ ” yelled “edgy, lone wolf” Conner, and pumped his fist in the air before running off.

“I don’t think I like it,” Bruce said, appearing at his shoulder.

“Well, it’s ludicrous, of course, but he’s goofy enough I think the audience might go for it.”

“No,” said Bruce. “I don’t think the idea of sharing you with Lex Luthor.”

His glower was almost comically overdone, and Clark snorted. “It’s just a storyline.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Bruce. “I want your most important storylines to always be with me.” He still wasn’t smiling, but then he shrugged, and his expression turned a bit sheepish under the glower. “I want us to be the most important people in each others’ lives, in the ring and out.”

Clark smiled and gave him a slow-motion punch in the mouth, lingering just long enough to feel Bruce’s lips start to curve upward against his knuckles.

“As if it could be any other way,” Clark said.

* * *

AN: Tim’s match with Scarface is inspired by [this match](http://youtu.be/IxPrsCfi3jY?t=28m24s) between Kota Ibushi and Yoshihiko (the blow up doll). I’ve cued the video up to the sequence of Canadian Destroyer flips, but I recommend watching the whole match, it’s amazing.


	49. Pitch Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lex Luthor calls a meeting for the wrestlers in the tournament to pitch their story ideas and convince him they should be the champion.

_I was beginning to understand why all my big brothers were involved in wrestling; the camaraderie, mutual respect and sense of belonging did wonders to mend lost and battered souls. --Bret Hart_

“--and then, with the championship belt finally around my waist, I will turn to the audience and inform them that _it’s all fake!_ The matches are rigged, the fights are choreographed--everything they love about wrestling is a huge work! As belt-holder, I will show up after matches and teach them how the wrestlers pulled their punches, how they landed just right, all those little tricks. I’ll call a random person out of the audience and walk them through it, show them how to pull it off. I’ll educate! Enlighten! As the new DCW champion, I will usher in a reign of full transparency and honesty in professional wrestling!”

Jack Napier threw his arms out rapturously, head tilted back to gaze at the ceiling. All the other wrestlers in the room stared at him in mute horror. At the head of the table, Lex Luthor was gazing at him stone-faced, one hand covering his mouth.

Clark had never seen him look so appalled.

“What’s with the sour faces?” said Napier as he realized his pitch wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted. “Come on, it would be _hilarious_! Imagine their reactions as I shattered their illusions, brought their dreams crashing to the ground. I’d be the biggest heel in wrestling history!” He rubbed his thin hands together and giggled. “It would be _glorious._ ”

Luthor removed his hand from his mouth and spoke: “If you _ever_ pull something like that, Napier, your contract will be confetti before you’re out of the ring.” Napier opened his mouth, but Luthor cut him off. “I brought you all here to pitch ideas for a championship run to me, not to bankrupt my damn company.” He made a disgusted face. “And I thought our usual bookers had bad ideas!” Waving at the rest of the wrestlers in the tournament, he went on, “Okay, there are seven more of you. One of you’ve got to have a better angle than _that_. Pitch it to me.”

“Well,” said El Dragón, “Since I’m going up against Killer Croc, I was thinking a **David and Goliath story** might be good. I was thinking a story about a small man overcoming great odds would be one the audience would like. And then as champion, I would like to promote **literacy**! I would like to be a face champion that focused on getting young people to read more!”

Now Luthor looked discouraged. “David and Goliath stories aren’t realistic,” he said. “No one believes in the power of heart over muscle. Not really, not down in their guts.” 

Clark started to open his mouth and felt Bruce’s hand touch his wrist, very lightly: _Not now._

Luthor went on: “Anyone got a more interesting storyline?”

“How about a storyline where the champion is stronger than everyone and crushes them like flies?” said Waylon Jones. “I like that story.”

Luthor rubbed at his face. “Maybe a _little_ more complex than that.”

“I was thinking about stepping my gimmick up a notch,” said Copperhead, leaning forward. “I’ve been talking to a snake trainer, and I could develop psychic powers--” Billy Batson groaned loudly, and Copperhead flipped him off. “Shut up, Batson. Anyway, I could develop a psychic bond with snakes and start bringing a real one to the ring with me. You gotta admit that’d make for an awesome visual, right? Me with the belt _and_ a snake wrapped around my waist?”

Luthor tilted his head to the side. “It’s got possibilities. Clear it with legal--I don’t want the ASPCA breathing down my neck--and see if you can bring a snake to work next week. We’ll cut a promo with you and Marvel and we’ll see how the crowd likes it.”

“Hey,” said Billy. He’d gone a bit pale. “I don’t like snakes, man.”

“Oh good,” said Copperhead with a grin. “That’ll make it easier for you to fake terror, right?”

“Uh,” said Billy. Looking back at Luthor, he crossed his arms. “You know the angle for me already. I’m the only former JLI champion in the DCW, so I _deserve_ the belt. There’s lots of JLI fans out there, they’d love to see me win.”

There was a long, heavy silence as Luthor looked at Batson with one eyebrow raised and everyone remembered: Captain Marvel switching from the JLI to the DCW while still champion, dropping the JLI belt in the trash. “Yeah, fans love traitors,” someone mumbled quietly in the back--it might have been Scott Free. 

Luthor turned to look at Two-Face and it was clear he was dismissing Batson out of hand--he wasn’t ever going to risk the belt on someone who might jump ship to another company. Clark glanced Billy’s stricken face and felt a brief, petty flash of satisfaction: _that’s for Max Lord and Guy Gardner, and all the people you helped put out of work with your backstab._

“Harvey?” Luthor asked.

Harvey Dent tilted his chair back and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Pamela and I have been talking about pitching an angle where we date for a while, but she betrays me to run off with Harley. If I were champion, she’d have a lot more reason to pretend to be interested in me.”

“Hm,” said Luthor. “It’s got sex, mind games, betrayal...definite possibilities. I’ll schedule you for a promo with Poison Ivy this week before your match and we’ll see if it goes over.”

“Oh, it will,” said Isley with a smile from the back, and Clark could see her already plotting to turn the angle into a run on the women’s championship and end Wonder Woman’s record-breaking reign.

“Oh! Oh!” said Conner, waving his hand. “My turn! See, I’m the Kryptonian’s clone, but no one knows--”

Luthor shook his head and spoke over him. “Sorry, kid, you know you’re way too young to get the belt.”

But Conner charged on, “See, I think _you_ should be my other parent.”

“You just don’t have the experience or--” Luthor stopped short as Conner’s words registered. “What?”

There were muffled giggles in the room at his expression. “Yeah!” said Conner. “We could work it around the Kryptonian’s face turn. I find out my dad’s actually a great guy, and I’m all thrilled-- _but_ what happens when I find out my other parent is evil incarnate? Uh, no offense.”

“None taken,” Luthor said. 

“It’s a titanic ethical battle. Which side will win: good or evil? And can I transcend my genetics?”

“That’s…” Luthor paused. “That’s actually very interesting.”

“It is?” Conner looked delighted.

“Yes, it is. But not for the belt holder. Still, keep it in mind.”

“Yes, sir,” said Conner, clearly torn between being deflated at being shot down for the belt and elated that his angle might get approved.

“That just leaves me,” said Dick Grayson. “And I’ve got the best argument here and you know it.”

“Oh? Do tell,” drawled Luthor, sitting back and steepling his fingers.

“It’s the best story. I grew up in the business, the fans have watched me go from being a Flying Grayson to Robin to Nightwing to the Dark Knight. This is my chance to come into my own, step out from Bruce’s shadow and embrace who I truly am.”

Luthor slow-clapped three times. “And while your personal story is very touching, I don’t--”

Dick held up a hand. “I’m not finished. There’s more. Bruce is coming back soon, it makes no sense for me to hold the cowl much longer. If I take it off after _losing_ in the tournament, it tarnishes the legacy and you know it. And it makes me look weak, like I gave it up out of disappointment rather than of my own free will. Or worse, like Bruce _made_ me give it up. That’ll hurt both Nightwing and the Dark Knight. You need me to win this tournament in order to get Bruce’s return as over as possible and tell a story that’ll stay in peoples’ minds forever.” 

Luthor looked at Dick and drummed his fingers together, his face expressionless. 

Dick shrugged. “I could argue that I’m incredibly over with the fans right now, and they’d love to see a young, new high-flying champion, but you already know that and I don’t think you care. But for the sake of two gimmicks, I need to win this tournament and hold the belt.” He leveled a finger at Luthor. “And I think you know that, too.” 

Luthor looked at him for a long moment in a very quiet room. Then he shrugged in turn. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, standing up in a way that made it clear the conference was over. “Oh, Kent,” he said as people started to file out. “I want to hear your pitch on that face turn tomorrow, got it? Make it good.”

“It’ll be great,” said Clark.

* * *

“That’s terrible and you know it,” Bruce snapped.

Clark kicked at a random dandelion which had the misfortune to be growing in front of his park bench, scowling down at it and ignoring the perfect blue sky. He’d insisted on getting outdoors for a change--it seemed like he spent his life going from hotel room to gym to auditorium and back--but his mood wasn’t as sunny as the weather.

“I told you, I won’t play the Kryptonian again.”

“So you’re just going to show up as this Superman guy with no explanation, nothing?” Bruce glared at a passing chihuahua, which gave him a goggle-eyed look back. “That would be a huge waste. We’ve laid so much groundwork for this turn, we’ve done so much preparation--”

“--The last time I wore that costume, you--” Clark felt the words choke in his throat. “And I had to stand there and _mock_ you.”

He looked away at the screaming kids on a swingset, blinking hard. After a moment, to his surprise, Bruce put an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close. “You have to take the bad in life and make it good somehow, Clark. That’s why the Kryptonian _has_ to have a face turn. All that suffering, all that negative energy, it’s up to us to turn that darkness to light.” He took Clark’s chin, turning his head toward him, and brought their foreheads together. “Life’s a heel, Clark. But that doesn’t mean we have to knuckle under to it. We’ll get that bastard in a submission hold yet.”

He was smiling, but his eyes were serious. Another jogger went by, casting a slightly curious look at the two men, and Clark started to pull back.

“That’s another thing we have to talk about,” said Bruce, not removing his arm from around Clark’s shoulders.

Clark sighed. “I know.”

“I’m not saying we need to make a press release or a formal announcement, but the locker room is starting to talk. If someone asks point-blank if we’re a couple…”

“I don’t want to lie,” said Clark. “Not about you. Not about this.”

“I don’t either,” said Bruce. “But I wanted to check with you before.” His arm tightened on Clark’s shoulder. “I know I’ve done a lot of lying and a lot of hiding in my life. But I won’t make any more unilateral decisions about us. Promise.”

“Maybe no one will ever ask and it won’t be an issue,” Clark said wistfully.

“Uh huh,” said Bruce. “Maybe wrestlers will give up their tendency to gossip overnight. That’d be nice.”

“Well it would,” said Clark.

“You’re such a babyface,” said Bruce. His smile was both wry and fond. “I’m going to kiss your babyface face right here in public, how about that?”

“Not if I kiss you firs--"


	50. Spectacle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first two matches in the tournament are held, and Dick makes a request of Bruce.

_ In wrestling, a man who is down is exaggeratedly so, and completely fills the eyes of the spectators with the intolerable spectacle of his powerlessness. --Roland Barthes _

"Gaze into the eyes of the serpent, Captain Marvel. Gaze into the face of a cold-blooded killer." Copperhead lifted a yellow python toward Billy Batson's face. "Gaze into the eyes of your inexorable doom!"

The snake, it must be said, seemed more sleepy than inexorable, but Captain Marvel recoiled quite satisfyingly, staggering away from Copperhead to the far side of the ring. "You _lunatic_ ," he gasped.

A distinct air of _schadenfreude_ hovered around the common room backstage as the monitor showed a close-up on the beads of sweat on Captain Marvel's brow. "You see," Copperhead explained as he held up the python, its tongue flickering toward the unnerved Billy Batson, "I have learned how to _connect_ with the serpent, to _channel_ the spirit of the snake. Do you feel its power?"

Marvel retreated another step until his back was against the ropes. "Yes, yes," he whimpered convincingly. "I feel it. Now get it away from me!"

Laughing maniacally, Copperhead handed the snake to the ring announcer, who seemed entirely unconcerned to be handling it. The bell rang and the match began.

“Who’s going over in this match?” said Big Barda, watching as Captain Marvel delivered his Lightning Stomp.

Harvey Dent, already in his makeup (he was going with purple today, with a contact lens turning his left eye a lurid yellow) shrugged. “Luthor called them into his office yesterday to let them know, but neither of them has said.”

Barda laughed. “Then Copperhead is winning. Come _on_ ," she added at Harvey’s curious look. “If Marvel were going over, do you really think Batson would have shut up about it?”

“Good point,” said Dent. He turned his gaze back to the screen. “Suddenly I’m enjoying this match a lot more.”

"Are you ready?" Clark asked Tim, who was buckling and re-buckling his boots.

"It's not like I'll actually be doing the wrestling," Tim said. "It's just a run-in to save Conner."

"My hero," swooned Conner, and Tim stopped fretting over his footwear long enough to sock him in the arm.

"But it's your first match as Robin at the Dark Knight's side," said Clark. "That's important."

Tim's hands on the boot buckles wavered a bit. "Don't remind me," he muttered.

"You'll do great," said Dick. He was lounging in a chair in full Dark Knight gear, somehow languid and alert at once. "We're gonna make a great team and show Luthor what we've got."

"Hah!" Big Barda gloated as a triumphant Copperhead draped his python on Billy Batson’s chest. Batson was supposed to be unconscious, but Clark could see his eyelids flickering uneasily as the snake coiled up on his chest. "That's for Max Lord and all of the JLI, backstabber."

* * *

“That’s some big talk from the son of that megalomaniac Kryptonian!” yelled Two-Face, towering over the Metropolis Kid. Conner wasn’t a short person, but Harvey Dent made him look oddly tiny, looming above him.

“You’re all wrong about the Kryptonian!” Conner yelled back, shoving him into the ropes. “And even if I _did_ have a psychopath for a father, I’d still be able to make my own choices, and I’d choose good!” He hurled himself forward, kicking Two-Face down and then getting him into an armlock. “Unlike you!”

"Mouthy brat!" Two-Face snarled as he struggled to get out of the armlock. "I'll teach you a lesson about choices!" He shrugged off the hold with some effort--in reality, the match had been surprisingly even--and launched a withering barrage of attacks on Conner, who struggled valiantly until he was thrown against a turnbuckle and "concussed." He staggered around the ring, shadow-boxing vainly, until Two-Face delivered his trademark double-powerbomb.

Conner lay on the mat, twitching slightly, and Two-Face put one hand on his chest, the very lightest of pins. The referee started the count--and at “two,” Conner managed to just barely lift one shoulder, clearly operating on instinct alone. Grinning, Two-Face let him break the pin, then started to brutally kick and pummel him around the ring as the ref and the crowd yelled at him. “Why should I _choose_ to end the fun?” he screamed at them, and lifted Conner’s limp body up for another powerbomb.

The ref gestured frantically and the bell rang at last. “The winner, by K.O., Two-Face!” cried the ring announcer.

“Oh, I’m not done here,” growled Two-Face, and slammed the Metropolis Kid down on the mat again. Conner landed with all his limbs gone loose, his mouth lolling open, unresponsive to even the shrieks of the crowd as Two-Face scooped him up once more.

The boos shifted like quicksilver into cheers that shook the floor as the Dark Knight rushed the ring to confront Two-Face, followed closely by Red Robin. With a laugh, Two-Face tossed Conner aside to land with a sodden thump. “Is this truly the Dark Knight?” he said, his face stretched in a taunting leer. “I think not! I do believe you’ve shrunk in the wash, caped crusader!” He drew a line in the air between them. “I’m sorry, you must be at least this tall to ride the--”

The Dark Knight launched himself at Two-Face and the crowd roared its approval as Dent’s taunts were abruptly cut off. They brawled around the ring until Two-Face had the Dark Knight on the ropes and Red Robin tackled him from behind. Two-Face swatted at him in annoyance, bashing him into the turnbuckle.

“You,” Two-Face snarled at the Dark Knight, pointing at him. “You’d better hope I never meet you one on one in a fair fight here in the ring! I will destroy you, do you hear me?” His face twisted under the grotesque makeup. _”Destroy you!”_

His music hit and he strode up the ramp and away, as the Dark Knight checked on a dazed Red Robin and the paramedics arrived to help the Metropolis Kid.

* * *

"So, Mr. Wayne. It's been a long time." Even from their sheltered spot backstage, Clark heard the crowd's reaction as he held the mic up for Billionaire Brucie, resplendent in a sharkskin suit and glossy wingtips. Some of it was boos for the return for a long-absent heel, but mixed in were enthusiastic cheers by the audience members who knew that Billionaire Brucie and the original Dark Knight were played by the same man. “To what does the DCW Universe owe the pleasure of your return?”

Brucie dusted off a lapel and beamed at Clark. “I remember you! Didn’t you use to wear overalls?”

Clark bit his lip and managed to continue with a straight face: “Yes, I did. I went back to journalism school and--”

“I miss the overalls,” Brucie sighed. “That suit doesn’t flatter you at _all_.”

The banter was as familiar as a comfortable pair of shoes (or, Clark supposed, overalls)--they hadn’t even practiced this promo. They hadn’t needed to.

Bruce went on: “I’ve been talking to Harvey Dent backstage as he’s recuperating from being ganged up on by that despicable Dark Knight and his little flunky Red Robin.” He waited as the ripple of knowing laughter from the audience died down, one eyebrow quirked innocently. “You may know Harvey is an old friend of mine, quite an old friend.” Clark nodded. “He’s also a lawyer, and he asked me to tell you that he plans to sue the Dark Knight for assault.” He turned to address the camera directly, ignoring Clark. “Get ready to face the wrath of our legal system, Mr. Dark Knight! I’ll have you know that--”

“Hey!” Brucie broke off to glare frostily at Red Robin, who had bulled his way into the shot. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” said Red Robin. “What Dent was doing to the Metropolis Kid was already assault, and it’s not wrong to stop something like that!”

“Oh, you adorable lad,” said Brucie, patting his cheek and getting his hand slapped away for his efforts. “You shouldn’t be hanging out with that Dark Knight character. He’s a bad influence on today’s youth, I tell you. What is this world coming to? Tsk tsk,” he concluded, articulating the sound absurdly.

Red Robin jabbed a finger at his chest. “The Dark Knight _stands_ for something, unlike you!”

Brucie looked after Red Robin as he stormed away. “Kids today,” he sighed. “They don’t understand that standing for something might mean having to take the fall for something else.”

“That’s all well and good, Mr. Wayne, but you never did answer my question,” said Clark Kent.

Brucie blinked at him. “Question?”

“Why have you come back to the DCW?”

“Maybe I missed your handsome face, did you ever consider that?” Brucie flashed a dazzling smile at him, the old familiar one from the days when Billionaire Brucie and Country Clark Kent had done their shtick together.

Clark smiled at him. “Why thank you, Mr. Wayne. I may have missed yours as well.”

Bruce blinked again--less theatrically this time. Then he smiled once more. “You’re a charmer, Kent. I see why they keep you around, even if you never could wrestle worth a damn.”

The crowd’s “oooooh” trailed after him as he wafted out of the scene.

* * *

“Twitter’s buzzing about the return of Billionaire Brucie,” Selina said with a grin from her chair in the common room. “The dirt sheets are chattering about it too. Speculation is that the original Dark Knight will be back soon.”

“When the time is right,” said Bruce, shooting a grinning look at Dick Grayson.

“Wow, Billionaire Brucie,” said Tim Drake, looking up from his _Magic: The Gathering_ game he was playing with Conner. “I remember watching the JLI and seeing him in action. Didn’t think I’d ever be working with him, though.”

“Remember all those amazing feathered capes?” Steph Brown said wistfully, propping her chin in her hands.

Bruce shot Clark a wry look which was easy to read: _Yes, we appear to be getting old._

Steph sighed. “I used to dream about going to Wayne Manor for a ball, wearing a tiara and diamonds…” She broke off at Tim’s look. “Okay, I figured out it was kayfabe eventually! Don’t tell me you didn’t think it was real at first, doofus.”

“I was _never_ that much of a mark,” Tim said loftily, but his eyes were twinkling.

Clark opened his mouth, then closed it again. Now that he’d seen the Manor, met Alfred, it was hard to remember that not everyone knew about Bruce’s secret. He glanced over at Bruce, who was frowning slightly, but Tim and Conner were arguing about a fine point of the card game now and the topic had shifted.

“Ask him.” The quiet voice hardly carried over the argument; Clark looked over to see Cassandra Cain standing behind Dick Grayson, tapping him on the shoulder. “You said you would.”

Dick scrambled to sit upright. “That’s right, I did!” he exclaimed. “Bruce, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Bruce looked wary. “Yes?”

“Some of the new guys--they were hoping you’d give them some extra pointers--mic skills, ring work, the whole deal. I mean, you did a lot to train me and they…” He shrugged. “They were kind of hoping you’d hand on some of that to them, too.”

“How many people are we talking about?” Bruce was still frowning, but he no longer looked worried about the direction this might be going.

Dick started to count on his fingers. “Um, definitely Tim, Steph, Cass. Helena said she might stop by. A few of the newer wrestlers: Harper, Luke, Bilal. Barbara might come and give the girls some extra pointers on the women’s side.” Cass, Tim, and Steph were all pretending not to be listening intently. “Nothing formal, you know. Just some extra help.”

Bruce grimaced. “There’s only so much mat time at headquarters. I mean, I guess we could look into finding another space…”

“Ted Grant’s got a gym in Gotham,” said Clark. “I bet he’d let you use his ring.”

Bruce shot him an annoyed look. “I’d have to do scheduling and stuff. I’m no good with that.”

“Babs told me she’d be willing to do all that. You should see her spreadsheets, she’s a wizard,” said Dick.

“Look,” said Bruce. “I’m not really a...people person. You’d all hate me after the first day.”

Tim snorted. “If Jason were here, he’d say we all pretty much hate you already anyway, and what’s that got to do with _teaching_?”

Bruce cast Clark a look that could almost be described as “pleading.” Clark shrugged and looked innocent, and Bruce sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “This just seems like a terrible idea.”

“Okay, Bruce. Take some time, think it over. No rush,” Dick said, standing up and heading for the door.

But when he got there, he turned and gave the younger wrestlers a reassuring wink and a thumbs-up behind Bruce’s back.

Tim stifled a small cheer, and Cass and Steph gave each other high fives.


	51. How to Suffer Beautifully

_ In wrestling, a man who is down is exaggeratedly so, and completely fills the eyes of the spectators with the intolerable spectacle of his powerlessness. --Roland Barthes _

“I’m--Clark, it’s a crazy idea.” 

The hotel’s AC was wonky, and Bruce’s chest was lightly sheened with sweat. Clark touched his tongue to the salt of it, tracing the absurdly chiseled lines of his pectoral muscles. “I think you’d be good at it.”

Bruce’s laugh was weak and incredulous. “I’m no one’s idea of a good mentor.”

“Dick seems to disagree. He thinks the new wrestlers could learn a lot from you.”

“That Cain kid is already twice the wrestler I was at her age.”

“She desperately needs some coaching on the mic.”

“Tim _gets_ ring psychology already.”

“You know he needs to work on his physical skills.” Clark propped his head up on his hand and gave Bruce an affectionate glare. “You’ve got so much to give. You’re the whole package. I just don’t see how you can turn your back on them.”

Bruce closed his eyes and turned his face away, but by now Clark knew the difference between “I reject your idea” and “I’m thinking.” He waited.

“I’ll trade you,” Bruce said at last. “I’ll give it a go _if_ you agree to be the Kryptonian again--just enough to set up the face turn,” he added hastily. “You don’t have to wrestle as him. But the story needs you to be him for a while.”

“You’re going to hold a bunch of kids who need a mentor hostage for a storyline?”

Bruce’s smile gleamed in the dusty light of the hotel lamp. “Come on, Clark.”

Clark sighed and flopped onto his back. “All right. You win. I do your angle, and you teach those kids.” He waited a beat. “I was already going to agree to be the Kryptonian, you know.”

“Yes,” said Bruce. “I did.”

* * *

The Dark Knight swung at the Joker, but the Joker ducked under the blow, then slid under the ropes and out of the ring. Grabbing a microphone from the startled announcers, he turned back to address to furious Dark Knight, still standing in the middle of the ring with his fists cocked and ready:

“No, no no, no,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, but no, it just…” He wiped away an invisible tear. “It just doesn’t feel the same. You’re literally not the man you used to be, Dark Knight! The magic is gone. I can’t--”

He broke off as Dick hurled himself backwards, then used the ropes to slingshot himself forward, over the top rope, at the Joker, who dropped the mic with a feedback squeal as the Dark Knight crashed into him, sending them both into the Spanish announce table.

The brawl raged around the ring; elated, terrified fans reached out to touch them, to feel the sweat and the greasepaint for themselves, as if they were breathing avatars of order and chaos.

Finally, the Dark Knight threw the Joker back into the ring, tossing him to the mat and climbing the turnbuckle to deliver a perfect senton bomb--Clark heard the crowd catch its breath as if it were a single being. He pinned the Joker, but the Joker managed to kick out just before the three count among gasps of horror. Staggering slightly, he lurched to his feet--and then slithered out of the ring to pick up the microphone again.

“You know,” he said, his voice breathless, “Maybe I take it back, kid. Maybe you’ve got something after all. I might have underestimated you.” He chuckled, dark and dangerous. “No more joking around, then.” Tossing the mic aside, he leaped back into the ring to begin the battle anew, and for a time it seemed he might get the upper hand. The cameras closed in on the faces of small children in the arena, their eyes anguished, when the Joker hit the Whoopie Cushion--a signature move that looked as deadly as the name was silly. It all seemed over--but then Dick kicked out, sending the Joker staggering back in astonishment.

The Dark Knight rose up as if buoyed by the cries of the crowd, launching himself forward shoulder-first into the Joker’s midsection, causing the clown’s narrow, wiry body to fold up like a jackknife. The Joker landed with arms and legs splayed wide and abject, and didn’t move a muscle as the referee counted him out and the crowd cheered madly.

Beaming beneath the Dark Knight cowl, Dick jumped up onto the turnbuckle to throw his arms out to the adoring audience, letting the waves of excitement lap around him. He was so rapt that he hardly noticed the cries of joy changing to alarm as the Joker staggered to his feet behind him.

When he finally turned and saw the Joker standing pale and grinning in the middle of the ring, his smile vanished and he jumped off the turnbuckle, wary.

The Joker nodded to him, slow and respectful. Then he held out his hand.

The Dark Knight paused, irresolute. The audience screamed at him not to do it. But he was a babyface, and a true babyface always shakes hands after a good match; clearly gritting his teeth, Dick stepped forward and took the Joker’s hand in the middle of the ring.

He immediately convulsed, twitching, and collapsed to the ring; the Joker brandished his hand triumphantly in the air, showing off the joy buzzer hidden in the palm. “Why aren’t you laughing?” he demanded of the horrified crowd (the camera closed in on a woman with tears in her eyes, her mouth a circle of anguish). “That was _comedy gold_! See, he won the match, but--ahh, it’s not funny if I have to explain it,” he said in disgust.

And he strutted up the ramp as the medical staff rushed to the ring to give the dazed and groggy Dark Knight first aid and then help him out.

* * *

El Dragόn paused on the turnbuckle, his arms raised above his head; even from that height he seemed barely taller than his towering opponent. Killer Croc stood in the middle of the ring, apparently staggered by a kick to the chest, vulnerable. The crowd was on their feet, delirious with hope that the diminutive wrestler could take down the green-skinned monster.

When El Dragόn leaped from the turnbuckle in his signature diving crossbody, his body limned by a thousand flashbulbs going off, soaring in defiance of gravity--

And then Killer Croc caught him out of the air as if he were a doll, slinging him across his shoulders with a careless shrug. For a moment he stood there, El Dragόn kicking futilely against his grip, and then tossed him into the air. As he came down, Croc hit him with an uppercut that seemed to resonate through the arena, and El Dragόn flipped over in midair and hit the mat like a dead weight. Leaning over him, Croc pinned the unmoving El Dragόn until the bell rang and the match was called.

Killer Croc straightened up, grinning as the referee lifted his hand above his head. Then he yanked his hand away, glaring out at the booing audience. “Oh, come _on_ ,” he yelled, annoyed, “Did you really think he had a chance? What are you people, idiots? I’m six foot ten and four hundred pounds, people! This squirt’s lucky I didn’t turn him to _jelly_!” He whirled, pointing at the back stage. “And the same goes for that pipsqueak who calls himself the Dark Knight!” He raised his voice to a bellow. “Are you listening, Little Knight? Come next week, your delusions of being a champion are going to be stopped by the cold, hard reality of a _Killer_. Nothing can save you when I come crashing down on you, Little Knight.”

* * *

“This is gonna be great,” Waylon Jones was chortling as he and Dick Grayson came into the locker room together. “Oh man, kid, this is gonna be great, we are gonna tear it up next week. Did you see the way Dragόn sold that uppercut? _Bam!_ ” He punched the air gleefully, re-enacting it. “We set it up great tonight, now you and me just gotta take it home next week and the crowd’ll eat it up.”

“So what did Luthor say?” said Harvey, looking up from wiping off his makeup from his promo of the week. “Which of you is going over? Or are you going to be a prick like Batson and not tell us?”

“You kidding?” Waylon clapped Dick on the back. “Nothing’s getting in Grayson’s way. My money’s on him to win it all.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Harvey said with just a touch of ice in his voice. He stood up and gave Dick a long, measuring look. “Luthor’s told me I’m going over Copperhead next week too. So it looks like it’s come down to you and me, kid.”

“Looks it,” said Dick.

“Luthor’s going to decide the belt goes to me, you know. So don’t get your hopes up.”

Dick didn’t look away. “We’ll see,” he said.

“How’d the conversation with Luthor go?” asked Clark as Harvey headed for the showers and Dick sat down hard on a bench.

Dick rubbed the back of his head and looked rueful. “The Dark Knight’s going to beat Croc next week, but Luthor isn’t convinced I should win it all, not by a long shot. He says--” He broke off and grimaced. “He says the crowd loves _the Dark Knight,_ but that doesn’t mean they love _Dick Grayson._ It’s the gimmick they’re cheering, not the person.”

“That’s not true,” said Bruce’s voice, flat and factual. He had appeared behind Clark at some point and was loosening the “Billionaire Brucie” tie he had worn for their promo together tonight. Clark watched his fingers tugging at the silken knot and remembered with a sudden pang how Bruce had so often joked about “his butler” picking out his clothes, how they had all rolled their eyes at him.

“That’s pretty much what I said--well, maybe not so politely,” Dick said with a grin. “And I’ve got a plan to prove it. It needs your help, though--I’ll run it by you later. For now,” he said, jumping to his feet, “It’s time you gave me a straight answer: are you going to be training the kids, yes or no?”

“I--” Bruce cast Clark a look, ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it in disarray. He looked back at Dick. “I’ll teach _one session._ If nobody comes, or if nobody wants a second class--” He broke off and leveled a finger at him, “--or if they treat it like a joke--then that’s the end of it.”

“Yes, _sensei_ ,” said Dick, bowing. He straightened up with a glint of laughter in his eye. “Or is that treating it like a joke?”

Bruce waved a hand. “I gave up on you taking anything seriously a long time ago,” he said. “Oh, and one more thing. Clark trains with me.”

“What?” said Clark.

“Duh,” said Dick.

“Wait, what?”

“I need someone I can demonstrate moves with, and you’re the person I trust most to do them with me,” said Bruce. “Deal?”

Clark made a grumbling noise to hide the fact that he wanted to grin. “I guess I can probably find time in my schedule,” he said.

“We’ll be in Bludhaven tomorrow,” said Bruce. “First session is at eight in the morning, at the local branch of Grant’s Gym.”

“I’ll get the word out,” said Dick.

* * *

Clark was brushing his teeth when he heard murmuring from the other room. Turning off the water, he tilted his head, focusing. 

_...long history...great names of the past...pain and sacrifice…_

Clark poked his head around the door. “Bruce?”

The murmur stopped.

“Are you…” Clark went into the main hotel room, where Bruce was standing with one arm in mid-gesture, looking sheepish. “Are you practicing a speech for the training session tomorrow?”

“So what if I am?”

“You’re _nervous_. That’s adorable,” said Clark. Then he yelped as he found himself locked in a half-nelson on the floor.

“The Dark Knight is not _adorable_ ,” breathed Bruce in his ear, dark and menacing.

“So you don’t deny that you’re nervous?”

His head thumped face-first onto the ratty carpet as Bruce released the hold and stood up. “What do you think of ‘You have chosen to enter a profession full of heartbreak and glory’ as a first line?”

“It’s not bad,” said Clark.

“It’s _true_ ,” snapped Bruce.

“Of course it is.” Clark stood up, brushing off his knees. “You’ll do great and those kids will learn a lot. Just...relax and be yourself.”

Bruce cast him an ironic, opaque look as Clark kissed him and headed back to take his shower.

Under the running water, he could faintly hear Bruce saying once more: “You have chosen to enter a profession…”

* * *

“Probably no one will even show up,” said Bruce as he grabbed his gym bag out of the back seat and threw it over his shoulder. He managed to sound worried and hopeful about this possibility at the same time.

Clark made a vague, uncommitted noise, rubbing at his eyes in the early morning light. But he made sure to stay close enough to Bruce’s side so that he could hear the small sound Bruce made, like taking a hit to the solar plexus, when he opened the gym doors and saw how many people were sitting in folding chairs in front of the practice ring. For just a moment Bruce froze in place, then they stepped forward together into the light of the gym.

The murmurs of conversation died as they headed to the ring. Bruce ducked under the ropes, then turned to look out at the people gathered there, scanning their faces. They looked back at him, waiting. He put his hands behind his back, and Clark was reminded of a general about to address his troops. He took a deep breath, threw his shoulders back and lifted his chin, clearly preparing to launch into his opening speech.

Then he stopped.

He looked down at the assembled young wrestlers and his expression softened, his shoulders dropping out of their military rigidness. Stepping forward, he put his forearms on the top rope and grinned at them. “God, isn’t wrestling the best?” he said. 

A ripple of agreement from the kids listening to him.

“It’s the stupidest, craziest, best thing in the world. I mean, we put our bodies on the line day in, day out, without even the simple joy of victory through physical dominance that ‘real’ athletes--” His fingers carved irony into the air, “--get. No, the only reward we get is the satisfaction of telling a story with our bodies. The only fame we get is based on the illusion of combat we create with our comrades. And yet here we all are, longing to get into the ring, to put on a show that leaves people breathless, to weave the eternal tale of triumph and loss one more time.”

He shrugged with a wry smile, and Clark felt a strange blossoming under his breastbone, a nearly painful expansion, pure and luminous. The listening wrestlers were entirely still.

“I can’t teach you how to tell that story,” said Bruce. “Each of you will have a different take on it. But if you’re patient, and stubborn, and brave, I can give you the tools to find that story within yourself, and the means to tell it.” Another small smile. “I already know you’re patient, because you sat through my spiel without complaining.” 

Laughter sparkled through the gym.

“Now let’s see how stubborn and brave you are.” Bruce gestured. “Row. Bluebird. Get up here and show me how you take a bump.”

A young woman with blue streaks in her short hair and a silver nose-ring stood up and scrambled into the ring. “You know my name,” she said, half-question and half surprised statement. “I don’t even wrestle with DCW, I’m with Sora.”

Without responding, quick as lightning, Bruce threw a punch at her and the girl’s back hit the mat as she dropped.

“Good reflexes,” said Bruce, putting out a hand to help her up. “But you need sharper movements. Crisper. Watch,” he said, and fell with a snap that resounded through the gym, as if he’d been punched by an invisible giant. “Try it again.”

She tried it again. The students watched avidly as Bruce Wayne walked her through each step: critiquing, arguing, praising. He called up another student, traded blows with him. “No, no!” he said in disgust. “If you no-sell another wrestler like that they’ll start hitting you for real, and you’ll probably deserve it, Osamu. Your job isn’t to be _stoic_ in the ring. Your job is to _suffer._ How will anyone care about you if you don’t suffer!” He pointed at Clark. “Kent. Come up here,” he snapped.

Clark hoisted himself into the ring, doing a backflip over the ropes that made a smattering of applause break out. The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched but his face remained stern. 

“All right, Kent. Let’s show them how to suffer beautifully,” Bruce said.

Clark nodded, bowed slightly, then lunged forward into the fight, into the dance, into Bruce’s beautiful vicious embrace.


	52. Dramatic Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all about heritage, trust, and love as both the tournament and Bruce's classes continue.

_ I was not there for rehearsal, I don’t need it any more _  
_When I show up just in time to pop you can clear the goddamn floor_  
_Empty out the locker room, let me find my space_  
_Let him who thinks he knows no fear look well upon my face._  
_\--The Mountain Goats, “Werewolf Gimmick”_

“Wow,” said Conner, a trifle nervously. “I’ve never seen you with your contacts in. They make you look--a lot scarier.”

Clark, Conner, and Milton Fine were waiting in the Gorilla position, just around the corner from the entrance into the arena. No, Clark reminded himself-- _the Kryptonian, the Metropolis Kid,_ and _Brainiac_ were waiting. One the monitor, Copperhead and Two-Face were squaring off, two big muscular guys, each the epitome of what Luthor admired in a wrestler. They were putting on a good, solid match--a little slow, Clark felt privately, but the crowd seemed to be enjoying it.

“We’ll have to come up with a Kryptonian name for you once I make my turn,” he said absently.

Conner almost fell over. “Do you mean it?” he blurted.

“Well, sure. You’re my clone-son, right?” Clark grinned at Conner. “Hey, that’s not bad. You could be Kon-El--it’s my character’s family name, and it’s close to your real name, plus it’s kind of an anagram for ‘clone.’ What do you think?”

“I--” Conner looked ridiculously pleased. “It would be an honor, sir!”

Clark laughed. “You can’t call me ‘sir,’” he said. “Clark will work just fine.”

“Okay, that’s fine, okay,” said Conner. “Sounds good--uh--Clark.”

Two-Face was gloating over Copperhead’s motionless body, and the crowd was booing him dutifully.

Milton Fine tugged on his lapels. “I hope you know better than to assume any of the other senior wrestlers would be okay with you calling them by their first names, kid.”

“Uh, I know better than to speak to any of them before being spoken to at all,” Conner said.

“The other ‘senior wrestlers’ maybe should get those sticks out of their butts,” Clark muttered, and Conner clapped his hand over his mouth to smother a giggle. “All right, get out there,” he said to Conner, slapping him on the back, and Conner scrambled out to the ramp to point an accusing finger at Two-Face as he celebrated.

“Two-Face!” The Metropolis Kid’s voice rang out through the arena. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did to me last week!”

Harvey sneered down at the kid in the leather jacket. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t know when to quit, you annoying brat,” he said. “But you see, I’ve got connections, and I came ready to deal with you.” He raised his voice. “Brainiac!”

Familiar ominous crystalline music rang out--not Brainiac’s theme, but the Kryptonian’s--and the arena caught its breath as Brainiac emerged in his shabby sideshow suit, with the hulking form of the Kryptonian at his side.

“Ha!” crowed the Metropolis Kid. “You brought my friend and my own father to defeat me? You idiot! There’s no way that--urk!”

His voice choked off as the Kryptonian grabbed him in the Psionic Claw, lifting him off the ground as he struggled wildly.

“Sorry, kid,” said Brainiac in his piercing voice. “But as it turns out, with the Kryptonian back, I don’t need you anymore--and Two-Face pays very well!”

The Kryptonian hurled the Metropolis Kid down the ramp, and he tumbled head over heels to slam into the ring and stare up in horror. “No!” he said. “No! I’m your son! Please!”

And the Kryptonian paused for a long, agonizing moment.

Clark could hear the crowd ripple in shock as they processed that the Kryptonian was wavering. Behind him, Brainiac screeched: “Attack him, my Kryptonian! You must!” Removing a red crystal rod from his jacket, he waved it wildly in the air, and Clark grabbed at his forehead as if in pain.

Then The Kryptonian lowered his hands, his face blank again, and advanced on the Metropolis Kid.

“Stop smiling,” he growled under his breath to Conner as he reached down and grabbed him.

“It’s just such an honor to work with you,” Conner blurted in his ear before being thrown into the barricade. “This is so cool!” he added as the Kryptonian lifted him in a crushing bear hug, and Clark could only hope that his grin might come off as a rictus of terror.

The Kryptonian smashed the Metropolis Kid to the ground, then hovered over his crumpled form a moment longer. The camera caught a flicker of a frown on his pale face as he glared down at the twitching boy. But then he turned and strode up the ramp to be at Brainiac’s side once more. The crowd shrieked in an ecstasy of hatred as Two-Face joined them, putting his hands above his head and shaking them in triumph. “Nothing can stop me!” he jeered. “Not the Metropolis Kid, not Killer Croc, not the Dark Knight!”

At that moment, it looked very true.

* * *

“Bruce isn’t claustrophobic, right?” Selina asked idly as they watched Waylon Jones and Dick Grayson battle around the ring.

“Not that I know of,” Clark said.

“I hope not,” said Selina.

Dick wasn’t exactly a small man, but the Dark Knight looked slender against the bulk of Killer Croc. They traded offense back and forth, simultaneously riding and building the audience’s energy, like surfers riding waves they themselves had summoned to do their bidding. The Dark Knight climbed the turnbuckle, ready to leap down onto Killer Croc--and Croc caught him out of the air exactly as he had El Dragon. But the Dark Knight countered, grabbing his arm and sliding down his back to yank him down onto the mat for the first pin of the night. The crowd went mad for an instant--then subsided again as Killer Croc kicked out even before the two-count, contempt on his face as he tossed the Dark Knight aside.

“Little worm!” he bellowed, lunging at the Dark Knight. But Dick locked up with him and--impossibly, unbelievably, thrillingly--forced him backwards. Croc broke away with a snarl of rage, but approached him more cautiously the next time, the contempt on his face giving way to a look of grudging respect.

They traded blows and kicks and counters, and although Killer Croc got in some amazing offense that left the Dark Knight reeling on the ropes time and time again, and the end it was clear that the Dark Knight simply had more resiliency, more cunning, more heart. Whatever Croc threw at him, he countered and came back again--and the crowd came back with him, pouring out their adoration in a vast wave.

The Dark Knight kicked Killer Croc in the face, and Croc fell onto his back. Dick jumped forward, seizing Croc’s legs and flipping him onto his stomach, standing over him as Croc struggled. Wrenching Croc’s legs up, the Dark Knight yanked his opponent’s body into a contorted arc.

In the breathless second before the crowd reacted, Clark remembered his very first DCW match. Remembered Mary Grayson, serene and smiling as she held Per Degaton in the same agonizing leglock until he tapped out. “The Flying Grayson,” he said under his breath. “His mother’s submission hold.”

The crowd went berserk.

Croc pleaded hoarsely, writhing within the submission hold, his face agonized. He tried to pull away, to get to the ropes and break the hold, but it was no good; Dick Grayson held on doggedly, not giving him an inch.

Finally, Killer Croc slapped the mat, over and over: submitting to the hold, giving the win to the Dark Knight. The bell rang.

Croc rolled out of the ring, limping away, defeated. The Dark Knight paid no heed to him, but stood in the middle of the ring as the referee raised his hand. He looked out at the crowd, at the children cheering, at the adults old enough to remember his parents weeping.

Slowly, he reached up and pulled off the cowl of the Dark Knight.

Beneath it, his hair was in wild and sweaty disarray, his suddenly-vulnerable eyes bright with tears. “This cowl,” he said, holding it aloft, and the arena hushed to catch his words. “This cowl represents the man who has been like a father to me. I have worn it in his place with pride. But in two weeks I will face Two-Face for the championship belt, and I will do so…” He stopped and his throat worked; in the crowd one person cried his name. “I will do so as myself. I will do so in the name of my family. I will do so _as a Grayson!_ ”

The audience roared. _You’d better be listening to that, Luthor_ , thought Clark. _Listen up and listen good._

Gently, with something like reverence, Dick knelt to put the cowl down in the center of the ring. He straightened, nodding to himself.

And then all the lights went out and the arena was plunged into total darkness.

The crowd gasped, the involuntary primal sound of terror at sudden darkness. For maybe ten seconds all was silent, all was dark. Then, like an exclamation point, a spotlight hit the center of the ring

Dick Grayson still stood there. And in front of him stood the Dark Knight.

 _”Nice,_ ” said Selina, clapping her hands. All through the room smatterings of applause broke out at the stark tableau: Dick Grayson, teary-eyed and battle-worn, face to face with the Dark Knight in his classic suit. Clark wanted to applaud as well, but he found himself unable to move, unable to look away from the screen for fear the tears in his eyes would spill over: _Bruce. Bruce, home at last_.

The Dark Knight reached out and rested his hands on Dick’s shoulders, a blessing and a benediction. Dick nodded, head held high.

The spotlight went out again, and when the house lights came up, Dick Grayson was alone in the ring once more.

“That was my idea,” said Waylon Jones from the door of the common room. There were tear tracks down his greenish makeup. “Getting me in the Flying Grayson, in Mary’s move--that was my idea. We were damn good out there,” he said with satisfaction. “God damn good.”

* * *

Clark peeked out into the arena to make sure the last of the fans had gone. Then he made his way down the ramp to the ring. “All clear,” he said, flipping up the apron cloth.

A black-gloved hand emerged, beckoning him silently.

Clark shrugged and slid under the ring to lie down next to Bruce, looking up at the ring floor just above their heads. There was room to crawl, but that was about it.

“That was a good spot,” said Bruce, handing him a bottle of Gatorade.

“It was,” said Clark. “Luthor would be stupid not to give him the belt.” He opened the bottle and took a sip. “Of course, he’s done some stupid things before.”

“You know what I was thinking about, while I was lying down here for two hours waiting for that last match?”

Clark considered. “How proud you were of Dick? How happy you were to be getting back into the ring? Planning out your angle with the Kryptonian?”

Bruce turned his head to look at him. “I was thinking about how fantastic it would be to have sex under here during a show.”

Clark almost spit out his Gatorade. “What?”

“Think about it. Above you the wrestlers are hitting the ring like crashes of thunder, you’re surrounded by thousands of people, but it’s totally private, completely intimate. You could hear everyone screaming as you came, and you’d have to bite your lip to keep from joining in--” Bruce’s hand was making its way up Clark’s thigh, and Clark felt a case of inappropriate giggles making its way up his larynx.

“No,” he stammered, “No, no. Look, we’ll put on a recording of a match and have sex under your bed if you want.”

“I do have that practice ring in the basement,” said Bruce thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be the same, but I guess it’s a start.”

“You might be a little obsessive about this whole wrestling thing,” said Clark.

“You noticed,” said Bruce, sounding pleased. He turned over onto his side and pressed a kiss into Clark’s hair. “Think of all the other things I could be obsessive about, and consider yourself lucky.”

“Oh,” said Clark, pulling him close. “I do, and I am.”

* * *

Attendance was markedly lower at the second meeting of Bruce Wayne’s training lessons, but that was just as well, Clark thought as he pulled off his sweatshirt and got into the ring. From scanning the crowd, he could tell that the ones who remained were wrestlers who were pretty tough--both physically and emotionally.

There were no inspiring speeches this time; Bruce put them all to work taking basic bumps for about a half-hour, then moved on to delivering suplexes--over and over, picking apart their moves, finding the flaws, praising the strengths. During a break, the students sat and drank water as he talked to them a little more about the business. “Remember, your partner’s life is in your hands--it’s the most important thing.” He pointed at Clark. “Kent, get out of the ring. Show them how we do a suicide dive.”

Clark slid out of the ring, stood on the mat. Bruce grinned down at him, a brief flash. Then he ran backwards, used the elastic ropes to add speed on the rebound, and launched himself over the top rope at Clark without an instant of hesitation.

Clark had taken many suicide dives from Bruce by now, but it was always the same: at the apex of Bruce’s flight, their eyes locked in an instant of total trust, total synchronization. The world seemed to stand still for a moment, with nothing but the two of them, their trajectories colliding in a perfect balance. Clark stepped forward to place his body so it would break Bruce’s fall, and they went down together in a heap, Bruce’s arms around him.

The students broke into applause. Clark could feel Bruce’s body on top of him, the precious fragile breath heaving his rib cage. “See?” Bruce murmured in his ear. “You don’t need to worry. You’ll always catch me.”

Then he was standing up, giving Clark his hand, and Clark hadn’t realized until that exact moment that he had been afraid of wrestling with Bruce again.

He wasn’t anymore.

The applause died down, except for one set of handclaps, slow and sardonic, from the back of the gym. “Is this lesson just for the fakers, or can the real warriors sit in as well?” asked Jason Todd, strolling to the ring.

A chorus of good-natured boos met his words, and he grinned at the other wrestlers as he grabbed a folding chair, turned it around, and sat down on it backwards.

“Heard there was education being done here,” he drawled. “Thought it would be a laugh to sit in.”

“Uh-huh,” said Bruce. “I’ll get you up here soon enough and see if you’ve let your skills get rusty.” He lifted himself into the ring, ignoring Jason’s dismissive snort, and leaned on the ropes again, looking out at the little clump of young wrestlers. “Okay, listen up,” he said. “I’ve got a little announcement to make.”

He took a deep breath, and glanced over at Clark--a sidelong look, almost shy--before continuing.

“You’re a good group of kids, and I hope we’re going to have a good class together. I hope I’m going to be able to teach you a lot. But just like partners in the ring, you need to be able to trust me completely. You deserve that. So next week, the DCW’s going to be in Gotham, and--”

He bit his lip for a second, nodding, then went on with studied casualness:

“I’d like to invite you all to my house for Sunday dinner.”


	53. True Selves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Knight confronts the Kryptonian; Bruce and Clark have a family dinner at the Manor.

_ Honestly, we’re probably more angry if someone’s not reading comic books than whether they’re gay or straight. --Brodus Clay, wrestler _

Robin shook hands with El Dragón, the victor of a good match between two small and agile babyfaces, with lots of turns and fast moves. The crowd was ebullient with delight, caught up in the fun--until Brainiac and the Kryptonian appeared at the top of the ramp.

“Nothing personal, Robin,” shrilled Brainiac as the Kryptonian lumbered toward the ring. “But Mr. Harvey Dent paying me to make sure this Nightwing upstart doesn’t have an unfair advantage against him next week, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to be in traction by the end of the evening!”

“Nightwing doesn’t need my help to beat that slimy Two-Face,” yelled Robin as he and El Dragón stood side by side in the ring, ready for a fight. 

Brainiac shrugged and the Kryptonian continued to advance, inexorable as a solar storm. Clark could hear children shrieking around him, worried for Robin’s safety.

And then familiar low, throbbing music hit--for the first time in far too long--and the crowd’s murmurs turned into a ripple of shock as the original Dark Knight made his way down through the crowd to the ring.

He sprang onto the apron just as the Kryptonian was pulling himself up by the ropes on the other side--and there they froze, staring at each other across the ring, their gazes locked. Robin and El Dragón cautiously edged out of the way, leaving the two mysterious figures confronting each other.

The Dark Knight held out his hand as if he wasn’t sure whether he was imploring or offering assistance. Then he spoke for the first time since his terrible injury, in a voice that carried to the furthest corners of the arena: “Kal-El.”

None but Brainiac had ever called the Kryptonian by his name, and Brainiac had never said it with such passion, such entreaty. “Kal-El!” he said again. “This is not who you truly are!”

An inchoate shriek of rage from Brainiac, who brandished his red crystal rod; the Kryptonian clutched once more at his forehead, as if in pain.

“I’ve searched the world for answers, Kal-El!” cried the Dark Knight. “And in the Arctic, far from here, I found the key to your true identity. This is not your true self, Kal-El! This charlatan--” He pointed to Brainiac, who was hopping from foot to foot in a fury, “--this mountebank, this sham has robbed you of your proud heritage, of your memory! Kal-El, I beg you, remember the hero you were meant to be.”

The Kryptonian was gazing at the Dark Knight with his head slightly to the side, as if hearing something familiar but far away; he lifted a hand from the ropes and for a moment it seemed that he was going to reach out across the ring to his former enemy. But then Brainiac yelled something in an alien language, shaking his crystal rod wildly, and the Kryptonian’s face went blank again.

“Attack him!” cried Brainiac, but the Kryptonian turned and walked away from the ring, his eyes fixed on nothing, ignoring Brainiac’s commands. The Dark Knight nodded to Red Robin and El Dragón, then turned and left once more through the audience, black cape swirling behind him, leaving the audience buzzing: _what did it mean?_

* * *

Clark had one scarlet contact out when Jiro Osamu came up to him, holding out his phone. “You are going to dinner with Mr. Wayne tomorrow?” he asked. “I looked up the address Mr. Wayne gave us, but Duela says this cannot be right.”

Clark glanced at the phone’s map and stifled a sigh. Of course Bruce would just give them the address with no explanation. “No,” he said, “Tell her that’s right. Tell her--well, I’m sure Bruce will explain everything tomorrow.”

Jiro, whose knowledge of Gotham geography was less than Duela Dent’s, shrugged and wandered off, leaving Clark shaking his head at the mirror.

“Great job tonight.” Bruce appeared in the mirror behind him. “You really sold that internal tension.”

Clark scowled at his own face in the mirror, one eye still a baleful red, skin a dead gray, dark circles under his eyes. “I’m so sick and tired of hearing kids screaming in terror when I come out.”

“I know.” Bruce picked up a damp towel and rubbed gently at Clark’s face, removing the chalky makeup, revealing the true face beneath. “But soon enough everyone will see you for what you really are: a lionheart, a paladin, a champion of the good.” The towel was a warm caress, Bruce’s voice a love song at his ear. “My hero.”

* * *

_”Holy--”_ Steph Brown broke off as she stepped into the foyer, staring around her at the stained glass, the marble, the gold and crystal chandelier. Beside her, Cass looked like she wanted to drop into a defensive crouch and was resisting only because it would be rude. “He’s...he’s _really him.”_

“He is indeed ‘really him,’ Miss Stephanie, Miss Cassandra,” said Alfred with a polite nod. “May I take your coats?” This was the seventh or eighth time he’d met a small group of shocked young wrestlers at the door and fielded their first reactions, but he sounded just as blandly polite as ever.

“You know our names,” said Steph.

“Master Bruce speaks quite highly of you,” Alfred said. “And I often watch your matches on television.”

“‘Master Bruce,’” said Steph, her voice choked with hilarity. _”Master Bruce!”_ She whirled on Clark, pointing accusingly. “You knew!” she said. “And you kept it secret!”

“It wasn’t my secret to give,” said Clark with a shrug.

“Understood,” said Cass with her usual abruptness. She turned and nodded to Alfred. “Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine,” said Alfred with a smile. “Now, if you do not mind, Mister Kent will show you to the drawing room, where Master Bruce awaits your company.”

When Clark came back from showing the two women to the drawing room (Steph tripped over the rug twice because she was staring around in amazement), Alfred was polishing an invisible smudge from the shining mirror in the foyer. “Well, said Clark, “that’s Barbara, Jiro, Duela, Bilal, Luke, Harper, Tim, Jason, Bette, Helena, Steph, and Cass. All settled in, and currently in various stages of annoyed, amused, and amazed. Bruce is fielding questions.”

“Just one person missing,” said Alfred. 

The sound of a motorcycle outside the door made Clark smile. “And here he is.”

Alfred opened the door to find Dick Grayson standing on the threshold, wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses. He grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You must be Alfred,” he said. “Bruce talked about you a lot.”

“Master Bruce has had much to say about you as well, Richard,” said Alfred.

There was a small pause, and then Dick stepped forward and flung his arms around Alfred. “I’m glad to finally meet the man he calls his father,” Dick said.

Alfred closed his eyes and held Dick close for a moment. Then Dick pushed away, looking around the hall with a low whistle. “Wowzers,” he said.

“You don’t seem as surprised as the others,” said Clark as they walked down the hall to the drawing room.

“He never told me--not in so many words,” said Dick. “But I had a feeling. He--he knew too much about grief, when he took a little boy with no parents under his wings.” He reached out and squeezed Clark’s arm. “Clark, before we meet up with the others, I just want you to know--you and Bruce, you’ve been the best mentors. I owe it all to the two of you.”

Clark stopped and looked at him. “I didn’t do much,” he said, embarrassed. “Bruce is the one who stepped in and mentored you, took you to Japan, all that.”

“My parents taught me the showmanship. Bruce taught me the moves, the technical side. But you taught me--” Dick broke off and shook his head. “You taught me about backstage leadership, about creating the right environment for the whole promotion.” He frowned and tightened his grip on Clark’s arm. “Why haven’t you ever held the belt, man? You’re the locker-room leader. You deserve it.”

Clark shrugged and kept his voice light. “Country Clark was a terrible choice to hold the strap. And I wouldn’t have wanted it as the Kryptonian anyway. It’s just not my time yet.” Dick looked unconvinced, but Clark was never going to breathe a word of the real reason to him. He still remembered the look on Luthor’s face when Clark had told him, calm and flat and certain: “You’re afraid you’ll be held responsible for John and Mary Grayson’s deaths. And more--you’re afraid you _are_ responsible for their deaths.” 

For a brief glimpse, Luthor’s face had been desolate, haunted, and Clark had known his words were true. 

He had also known in that instant that Lex Luthor would never forgive him for being right, for seeing his pain and making it real. 

So he just smiled and said “I don’t need it anyway. It’s not what I’m wrestling for.”

Dick frowned, started to say something--but they were at the drawing room door, and Clark could hear the murmuring of the other wrestlers’ voices beyond as he swung it open, stopping the conversation.

“Dick.” Bruce came over and shook his hand, clasping his forearm warmly. “Welcome to my house.”

“He didn’t even tell _you_?” Jason Todd was leaning against the marble mantle, rolling his eyes. “What a wiener.”

“Articulate as always, Jason,” said Bruce as laughter skittered through the room. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Alfred Pennyworth, the man who raised me after the death of my parents.”

Alfred bowed from the doorway. “May I just say that it’s a pleasure to have you here,” he said. “And to hear happy voices in a house that has often been sad and silent.” He gave Bruce an opaque glance: slightly reproachful, slightly sympathetic. “Master Bruce has spoken warmly of all of you, and sees you all as the future of the business. This house is always open to you.”

“Speaking of which,” Bruce said. “Let me show you something.”

He led the little troupe of students down the hall, padding along the thick Persian rugs and gaping at the Greek statuary, and opened a door to reveal a stairway winding downward. 

Tim whistled sharply in awe as they reached the bottom of the stairs, looking at the gleaming modern workout facility, the high-tech equipment, and the shiny wrestling ring set up in the middle. “You’ve got a better gym than the official DCW facilities...in your basement?”

“With four cameras,” Luke Fox said, looking at the setup.

“Six,” said Jason quietly. “And they’re all HD.”

“Seven,” said Bruce from the base of the stairs, smiling. “And they’re 4K, actually. Need to be able to see what a move looks like from all possible angles.” 

“Look at this editing equipment,” Barbara said, touching the keyboards reverently.

“And what, _one_ folding chair?” said Duela, pointing at it.

“Alfred comes down and watches sometimes,” Bruce said, shrugging. “I’ve never really needed to provide for more of an audience.”

“Until now,” said Dick.

“Until now,” agreed Bruce.

Steph, Harper and Cass had already climbed into the ring and were testing the ropes, stamping at the mat. “Wow,” said Harper. “This is unreal.”

“You’re welcome to come here and work out anytime you’re in Gotham,” said Bruce. 

Cass did a quick handspring and came up smiling. “Nice.”

“I think Alfred has dinner ready in the Rose Room,” said Bruce, “If you’re hungry.”

Jason and Tim raced each other up the stairs, whooping, and only realized at the top they had no idea where the dining room was.

* * *

The Rose Room was big enough to seat all fourteen dinner guests at one long table, and was already laden with food. Bruce took Clark’s arm and steered him toward the head of the table, where two chairs were set up. “Everyone,” he said quietly, “Clark and I are pleased to have you here.”

It was that simple, really. Clark saw a variety of expressions on peoples’ faces, ranging from _I-knew-it_ to _huh-okay._ And then Jiro and Luke started arguing about workout routines and Helena started teasing Dick about something, and the dinner went on as if they were all, somehow, family.

As Alfred brought in dessert--baked Alaska for all, its meringue brown and crispy over strawberry ice cream--but just as everyone was lifting their spoons, Dick tapped his on a glass and stood up.

"Oh, come on," complained Jason. "You think I get to eat stuff like this every day? And you're gonna let it melt while you yak, huh."

"Shut up, Jason," said Dick good-naturedly, and Jason subsided with a grumbling grin. "I just want you guys to be the first to know that Luthor called me into his office today and told me I'd be going over Dent to be the new champion next week." There were cheers and applause all around the table. "And I wanted you all to know I couldn't have done it without all of you--that means you too, Todd," he said, and Jason actually blushed and looked down at the table. "I'll try to be a good champion for the time given to me, and I hope I do you all proud."

Bruce stood up. "I think I speak for all of us when I say--you already have," he said, and hugged Dick hard as everyone applauded and wiped their eyes..

"Can we eat _now_?" Jason groused, and everyone laughed and set to work demolishing their baked Alaska, teasing and chattering like any other family.

As Alfred passed behind the table, he stopped and briefly laid a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing once, and Bruce ducked his head and smiled at him, his heart in his eyes for a moment.

Family.


	54. Euphoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The DCW begins to plan a Royal Rumble, and Nightwing and Two-Face square off for the championship belt.

_What is portrayed by wrestling is therefore an ideal understanding of things; it is the euphoria of men raised for a while above the constitutive ambiguity of everyday situations and placed before the panoramic view of a univocal Nature, in which signs at last correspond to causes, without obstacle, without evasion, without contradiction. --Roland Barthes_

“Tonight,” announced Glorious Godfrey from backstage, throwing an arm out wide, “We witness the culmination of the tournament to decide who shall bear the champion’s gold! Whose strength of will is paramount! Who shall be the ruler of all of the DCW! Will it be the mighty and glorious Two-Face?” He paused to let the boos of the crowd build. “Or will it be the scrappy, plucky Nightwing?” As the audience cheered, he pulled a face. “Yes, well. The unwashed masses have spoken, but the only factor that truly matters is the strength of sinew of the warriors tonight!”

He took a few steps toward a cloth-covered object on a table, smiling benignly. “But first, the lottery for the order of next week’s Royal Rumble! Now, for the benefit of--” he coughed delicately, “--the less enlightened among us, a Royal Rumble is a gruelling gladiatorial combat that only the strongest can survive. Thirty wrestlers, pitted against each other in mortal combat! Only if a wrestler is thrown over the ropes and both feet hit the ground is he eliminated. And yet there is as well an element of luck, for each wrestler enters at 90-second intervals, in an order to be chosen randomly _this very evening!_ ”

With a flourish, he whisked the cloth off to reveal a lottery machine. “Each wrestler in the Rumble will arrive to pick a ball that reveals the order of precedence. May the lucky and the strong flourish, and hail mighty Darkseid!” he finished hurriedly as the camera cut away.

“Gimmick matches,” Clark said with some distaste, glancing up at the monitor from the table in catering.

“You’ve just never forgiven Max Lord for that tuxedo match,” Bruce said absently as he put far too much pepper in his soup.

“It was embarrassing,” Clark muttered.

“Well, a Royal Rumble is gimmicky, sure, but it has some _great_ opportunities for storytelling, so I don’t mind. Sh,” Bruce said as Clark opened his mouth again, “It’s Dick’s promo.”

Clark sighed slightly and focused on the screen, where the promotional video to set up the match between Nightwing and Two-Face had just started: a subtle sepia wash and slow-motion editing making it clear that this was a recap of long-ago events, just in case the presence of Dick Grayson in his Robin costume wasn’t enough. “My first match as your partner in the DCW, golly!” announced Robin at the side of the Dark Knight, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “We’ll kick that deranged, duplicitous doppelgänger’s behind!" He smacked his fist into the palm of his hand, grinning, but the Dark Knight looked concerned.

"You shouldn't take Two-Face lightly, chum,” said the Dark Knight, resting his hand on his sidekick’s shoulder. "Harvey Dent is one of the most dangerous foes I have ever encountered, and you should never underestimate him." He shook Robin's shoulder lightly, warning him. "I don't want you to get involved, do you understand me?"

"Awwwww," sighed Robin, looking downcast. "But I--"

"Don't argue with me," said the Dark Knight, his voice rough."You stay out of the way."

After a moment, Robin nodded, but it was clear he had not taken his mentor's words to heart. And indeed, as the vignette continued the audience saw well-remembered events unfold once more on the screen. Once again, the Dark Knight hung on the ropes, beaten and battered. Once again, as the two lackeys currently in his employ, Duo and Dos, continued to assault the helpless Dark Knight, a transcendently furious Two-Face raged out into the audience, seizing an "innocent bystander" and putting him in a headlock. "This is all _your_ fault, Dark Knight!" cried Two-Face, preparing to deliver his devastating finisher to the struggling audience member. " _You_ have driven me to this!"

Clark watched as the promo package showed a young Robin charging toward the ring, his yellow cape fluttering behind him. The crowd popped hard for him as he grabbed Dos and put him in his own headlock, but he was brought up short by an imperious gesture as the villain tightened his hold on the struggling audience member.

“Make your choice, Boy Wonder!” yelled Two-Face, his voice augmented eerily in post-production. “Release my minion (Dos looked somewhat peeved at being called a “minion,” but Two-Face charged on), and I’ll let this sap go. That seems...balanced, don’t you think? There’s a pleasing symmetry to it.”

The camera caught a glimpse of the Dark Knight’s face as he struggled to warn Robin, but Robin couldn’t see him. “Very well, Two-Face,” he said as a bead of sweat slid down the side of his face, “I’ll let him go if you let your hostage go.”

“That seems fair,” Harvey said smoothly. He waited, smiling, as Robin released Dos.

And then he lifted the flailing, screaming audience member and smashed him into the barricade before scooping him up to deliver the Janus Smash, leaving him twitching on the ground. Two-Face stalked over to where Robin was still standing, frozen in horror, and grabbed him by the throat. “I think I’ll make an example of you, _boy_ ,” he sneered, and hurled him into another barricade.

As harrowing images of the beat-down Two-Face delivered that day flashed by, the announcer’s voice intoned: “Since then, the boy has become a man. But his mistake still haunts him. Is Nightwing man enough to face his oldest enemy and win the most coveted prize of all?” The gleaming gold insignia of the DCW filled the screen. “Find out… _tonight!_ ”

“Luthor might have his doubts about Dick as champion, but he sure makes a damn fine promo,” said Bruce under his voice to Clark as the camera moved to the first match of the night: Pamela Isley taking on Batgirl. He pulled up his cowl. “Well, I’m up for the lottery next.” He grabbed his fork and stole a bite of Clark’s cheesecake, grinning. “Catch you later, brother.”

* * *

The Dark Knight’s lips narrowed as he looked at the ball he had plucked from the machine, the bold “1” emblazoned on it. “What a _shame,_ ” smirked Godfrey. “You’ll have to outlast twenty-nine other wrestlers to win the Rumble! A bad break for you.”

From slightly to the side, Gorilla Grodd heaved a long-suffering sigh. The former wrestler had been brought in recently to provide play-by-play to contrast with Glorious Godfrey’s color commentating. Now he ran a hand through his thinning hair, shrugged the simian-heavy shoulders that gave him his nickname, and muttered, “As if I didn’t just watch you rig this--” Godfrey elbowed him in the ribs and he rolled his eyes but subsided.

“Yessiree,” Godfrey intoned smugly as the Dark Knight swept his cape around him and exited stage left. “That number-one spot is a _serious_ disadvantage. Too bad for the Caped Crusader.”

The Dark Knight, it was noted on the message boards after the show, looked notably unconcerned about the terrible disadvantage he would be working at.

* * *

It was the last promo of the night before the main event, and the crowd was clearly restless as they waited to discover the fate of Nightwing against his nemesis. The Kryptonian stood behind Brainiac, his arms folded, glowering into the middle distance. 

“But what is in it for me” Professor Ivo was saying to Brainiac. “Why would I allow your Kryptonian to trade numbers with my all-powerful wrestling android, Amazo?” He gestured behind him at the well-sculpted wrestler with his red hair cut into a neat widow’s peak, his arms crossed in a perfect mirror of the Kryptonian. “Changing from thirty to twenty-six would be to lose quite a large advantage, after all.”

“Now, Professor Ivo,” Brainiac said with a slimy smile. “I think it’s time some of us more… _intelligent_ members of the DCW need to learn to work together. Pool our resources, as it may be.”

“Intelligent? You’re a sideshow fortune teller! A quack!” Ivo snapped.

“Oh, I think you’ll find that I’m much more than that,” said Brainiac. He touched his temple and Ivo’s eyes went wide as he clutched at his head. “Does the enormity of my true nature begin to dawn on you, cretin?” Amazo lurched forward at the sight of his creator’s distress, but the Kryptonian moved to block his way. The crowd had stopped rustling now, breathless at the idea of these two juggernauts meeting.

“Stop!” gasped Ivo, both at Brainiac and at Amazo. “I bow to your superior intellect...for now,” he added under his breath. “I’m willing to give the Kryptonian the coveted number-thirty slot in the Rumble if you will share with me some of your knowledge.”

“This seems an equitable trade,” said Brainiac. “Oh, I ask one other thing of you, Professor,” he said, halting Ivo in his tracks as he attempted to retreat.

“Yes?”

“If the Dark Knight is still in the Rumble when Amazo enters the ring--”

“Oh come now,” scoffed Ivo. “That would require outlasting twenty-five wrestlers. Even the Dark Knight isn’t--”

“--if it were to happen,” Brainiac went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “I must demand that Amazo focus all his energy on eliminating the Dark Knight from the ring. He is to throw him over the ropes _at all costs,_ do you hear me? The Dark Knight _must not be allowed to confront the Kryptonian._ ”

Ivo cast a questioning look at the Kryptonian’s impassive face, then shrugged. “All right, Brainiac. I’ll make sure Amazo takes him out. You have nothing to worry about.”

“It’s true,” muttered Brainiac _sotto voce_ as Ivo and Amazo left the scene. “I have nothing at all to worry about--as long as the Dark Knight never gets a chance to talk to the Kryptonian again.”

The camera zoomed in on the Kryptonian’s expressionless face as the scene faded out.

* * *

Two-Face glared across the ring at Nightwing, his face split in half by his bizarre paint--Harvey had gone all-out on the paint for this match, and it looked more gruesome than ever before. Turning his “good” side toward the camera, he said, “Look, Grayson, I worked with your parents. You’re a good kid.” Then with an eerily fluid movement, he twisted his head so the glaring monster half of his face pointed to the camera. “But I’m gonna rip you in two tonight!”

The Harvey side faced forward again: “You’ve grown up a lot. Your mentor would be proud.” A twist and Two-Face snarled, “That’s why it’ll rip his heart out to see you crushed under my heel! You’re a weakling, you’re puny, you’re soft--” 

“--and although I admire your pluck,” finished Harvey, this time looking straight at the camera so both sides of his face were addressing Nightwing, “I’m afraid I’m not going to let it stop me from beating the hell out of you.” 

The words sounded even more chilling spoken in Harvey’s cultured tones, but Nightwing grinned at him, a flash of teeth. “I may be close to half your size, but I’m double the man you’ll ever be, _Harvey._ ”

Two-Face gritted his teeth at the use of his true name. “You insolent runt!” he snarled, and leaped forward.

It was obvious from the beginning that the two were, despite the size difference, evenly matched. What Nightwing lacked in muscle, he made up for in agility, skill, and sheer mad inspiration. The match showcased the strengths of both wrestlers--when Harvey hurled Dick halfway across the ring with his Coin Flip, Clark heard a gasp go up from the crowd. But it was nothing compared to the pop when Two-Face stood on the announcer’s table, taunting Nightwing, and Nightwing launched himself from the turnbuckle like an avenging angel. 

For a brief moment the world seemed to stop. Clark heard Bruce suck in a tiny breath. And then Nightwing slammed into Two-Face and sent both of them smashing onto the table.

Harvey’s face contorted with pain--the legit kind of awkward, annoyed pain that marked an actual injury--and a babble of discussion broke out in the common room. “Was it his shoulder?” Selina asked.

“No, one of the monitors caught him on the back,” said Diana. “Watch the replay.”

Indeed, in slow motion you could see how, as Harvey caught Dick and fell backwards, one of the monitors on the table gashed into his upper back. There was a trickle of blood running down the small of his back now.

“Well, that’s a hell of a lot better than tearing a muscle,” Billy Batson observed. On the screen, Two-Face turned on the monitor and kicked it with a level of spite that was probably unfeigned before swinging back to kick Nightwing, who was collapsed against the steps.

“Do you think they’ll shorten the match?” said Kon.

Tim laughed. “Not on your life. They’ll go the full time no matter what.”

Despite the blood, Two-Face showed no sign of letting up on Nightwing. Dragging him back into the ring, he began to pummel him, tossing him like a rag doll. “Here it is,” murmured Bruce. Harvey delivered two elbow drops. Then two clotheslines. Then two legwhips.

The camera caught a glimpse of Dick’s exhausted face, and the dawning realization on it: driven into an incandescent fury, Two-Face was doing every move doubled without realizing it.

“Good work on the camera,” Bruce said. 

Nightwing staggered to his feet. As Two-Face moved toward him, he didn’t even dodge; Two-Face caught him up and flipped him so his feet pointed up toward the ceiling before dropping him into a vertical suplex that shook the ring. 

Clark could hear the announcers yelling about how Nightwing must be too exhausted to move, that he hadn’t even _tried_ to dodge that move. Nightwing got to his feet again--and this time, as Two-Face stepped forward to deliver the same vertical suplex once more, he was ready for it, knew exactly when Two-Face would be open and vulnerable.

With a twisting arm throw, he used Two-Face’s own momentum to throw him to the mat. In an instant, he had his foe in the Flying Grayson hold, torquing his body into an arc of pain.

The crowd went wild as Two-Face struggled to break the hold, clawing madly toward the edge of the ring. His face, turned so the “evil” side showed, contorted even further with pain and with loathing as he dragged himself, inch by painful inch, toward the ropes. If he could just reach them the referee would call for the hold to be broken--

But Nightwing dragged him back into the middle of the ring, away from safety. Dick’s face was contorted with effort, his shoulders bunched with urgency as he held Two-Face in place, kept putting the pressure on his body. “You can’t beat me!” Nightwing yelled, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the audience’s screams. “I don’t care how big you are, I don’t care how strong you are, I don’t _care_ that you don’t _believe_ I can beat you-- _you’re going to tap out!_ ” Clark glimpsed a glint of tears in the eyes beneath the blue mask, and at his side he heard Bruce murmur Dick’s name as if it pained him.

For a long moment Two-Face struggled against the hold, pain and fear twisting Harvey’s handsome features under the gruesome paint. The crowd surged and roared like surf. “Almost there,” whispered Bruce. “Almost there…”

Slowly, Two-Face turned his head, as if even that slight movement caused him untold agony. He twisted his neck until the unmarred half of his face was showing. Then he raised his hand and slammed it onto the mat: once, twice, three times. He had submitted to the man who had once been the Boy Wonder. Nightwing was the heavyweight champion of the DCW.

Confetti.

Fireworks.

Fifty thousand voices cheering.

Nightwing stood in the middle of the ring as confetti and streamers fell around him. The referee brought him the belt, gold and heavy and gleaming in the hectic light of the pyro. He hoisted it above his head with an exhilarated smile, the conquering hero soaking in the adulation of the crowd.

Then he looked down at the belt, and Clark saw his face crumple as it sank in, as he realized that this was _his_. That Luthor had--impossibly, unbelievably--decided to put his faith in a slender acrobat with charisma and attitude. That he had achieved everything that Bruce and his parents had ever dreamed of for him. That he was in the history books forever.

Dick Grayson fell to his knees in the middle of the ring and wept, and the thousands in attendance, the millions watching at home--they wept with him too.

* * *

“Do you think he’ll notice if we clear out of the celebration party a little early?”

Clark looked from Bruce to Dick Grayson, surrounded by all his friends. Donna and Kory were beaming, Garth and Wally and Garfield were goofing off, and Victor and Roy looked like they were planning on ambushing him and hoisting him on their shoulders for the third time that evening. Barbara was taking pictures and Tim seemed to be posting to Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook simultaneously. Clark knew without checking that Jason would be trolling him in the comments in all three places. Everyone else was milling around, chatting or coming up to congratulate the new champ--even Harvey was being gracious about his loss and seemed to be planning his new angle (and perhaps vicious revenge) with Ivy and Harley in the corner.

One of the only people conspicuous by his absence was Lex Luthor, who had quietly shaken Dick’s hand after the match, told him he’d had a good match, then disappeared as if watching Dick celebrate was somehow difficult for him. Yet the DCW had booked this room and a caterer, and that open bar was all due to Lex. Baffling as always, Clark thought, shaking his head. 

Dick was grinning, the gold belt shining around his waist an incongruous weight against his sharp blue suit coat.

“I’m not sure he’d notice if there was an alien invasion,” Clark said.

Bruce smiled. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Whenever you are.”

“Let me give him our regards.”

He went over to Dick, and his friends backed off to let them talk. Bruce brought his forehead to Dick’s, cradling his head, and spoke to him for a while. Dick nodded and wiped at his eyes, then hugged him, sending a smile and a salute Clark’s way as well.

Bruce stepped away from Dick, but didn’t return to Clark right away. He went over to Harvey Dent and clapped him on the shoulder. Clark couldn’t hear him over the chatter of the party, but he could read “Thank you” on Bruce’s lips, see the wry smile Harvey gave him as they shook hands. Only then did Bruce came back and clap him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

They were in Washington DC that week, and the summer air was humid and muggy. Clark and Bruce were in suits that quickly grew damp and sticky in the heat; Bruce took his coat off and slung it over his shoulder as they walked along the river. “I know I’ll sleep better tonight,” Bruce said. “Wonder if Lex will.”

“You think he did this for John and Mary?”

Bruce tilted his head. “Not for them, per se. Dick’s the real thing, the best choice, he knows that intellectually. But his gut--his gut’s all mixed up about Dick. He hates that Dick’s still here, still a reminder of his mistakes. And he wants to make it up to him at the same time. Sometimes I wonder…” He shrugged. “Dick grew up in the DCW. Lex watched him grow up, saw how much Dick’s parents loved him. His relationship with his own father was...not like that. Maybe Lex envies him that.”

Clark sighed. Then he forced himself to brighten: being morose wasn’t going to help anything. “Hey,” he said, punching Bruce lightly on the shoulder. “Speaking of which, you still haven’t met my parents yet.”

“It’s true,” said Bruce blandly. They walked for a while in silence. Eventually Bruce cast a sidelong glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “Have they ever been to a show?”

Clark laughed. “Now that you mention it, they’re planning on coming to the next Metropolis show.”

“Good,” said Bruce. “If we play our cards right, if this Royal Rumble next week goes well--”

He turned and beamed at Clark, the boyish smile that always made Clark want to kiss him.

“They should be there when Superman makes his debut.”


	55. Royal Rumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Royal Rumble, the Dark Knight finally faces down the Kryptonian, and the wrestling world will never be the same.

_ “In ancient Rome and Alexandria, homosexual lovers were considered the ideal warriors, since it was believed they were motivated by the noblest of sentiments—the love and admiration of another man. Usually, though, the love of males at the sentimental heart of wrestling escaped awareness. When Hunter Hearst Helmsley told his “buddy” Shawn Michaels, “You are weak, you are vulnerable; that’s why I wanted you by my side—so I could have protected you,” nobody seemed to think anything of it. Was that because the violence masked the affection?” --Thomas Hackett _

Dick Grayson, Heavyweight Champion of the World, looked up from his phone with a grimace. “Did you see these rumors that Jean-Paul might be making a surprise appearance at the Rumble?”

Clark shrugged as he sat down with his morning cinnamon roll and cocoa. “There are always a few slots open for some surprises.”

“Well, I don’t want one of them to be Jean-Paul, that’s all,” said Dick.

“Valley’s still on walkabout, last I heard,” said Bruce, joining them with a cup of coffee. “Trying to find himself. Unlikely he’ll show up. Should be some other surprises, though.” He just sipped his coffee and looked mysterious when Clark and Dick pestered him to tell them who. “Lex will let us know before the match begins, I’m sure.”

“Well, that’s good at least,” grumbled Clark. “I’m just glad I get to come out last and not have to deal with it.”

“What’s your problem with Royal Rumbles, anyway?” Dick asked. “I kind of wish I could be in it. Not that I mind taking a week off for a victory lap,” he added quickly, patting the belt on the seat next to him. The gleaming strap of leather and metal was never far from him; like all champions it became his property and his responsibility, and it was a responsibility no wrestler took lightly.

“They’re chaotic,” said Clark. “I don’t like working with too many people in the ring, there’s too many variables. Give me a good clean match between two people who know and trust each other.”

“But they’re _fun_ ,” said Dick. “There’s so many opportunities for on-the-fly storytelling and funny little spots. And then there’s the anticipation of seeing which wrestler is next, listening to the crowd react when they come running out...”

“Speaking of anticipation,” said Bruce, “Your parents will really be coming to Metropolis for the next show?”

Clark snorted. “Ma says she wouldn’t miss the chance to see me finally get to play a hero for the world. She also says if she has to wait any longer before meeting you, she’ll come to the apartment and put me in a cobra clutch.” He couldn’t help grinning at the expression on Dick’s face. “She prides herself on having learned all the lingo of the business.”

“I’d better be on my best behavior, then,” Bruce mused, smiling at Clark over his coffee cup.

* * *

Milton Fine actually rubbed his hands together as he addressed the wrestlers before him: Sinestro, Amazo, Agamemno, Mirror Master, Solomon Grundy, and Joker. “Gentlemen, it’s high time those of us with sense and intelligence banded together to work in our own best interests.” He ignored the Joker’s cackle of laughter and continued, “I propose a loose alliance for the Royal Rumble, a truce between us as long as any other wrestler is in the ring. It is an injustice that they should win by mere numbers!”

Solomon Grundy cracked his knuckles. “I guess,” he said shortly. “We’ll see.”

“So this is some kind of...Injustice League?” said Agamemno. “To make sure we keep the scales tipped on our side? I could go for that.”

“I can give you all access to untold resources,” said Brainiac. “I just need one favor from you.”

He paused dramatically to let the camera zoom up close on his face.

“The Dark Knight must be eliminated before the Kryptonian enters the Rumble.”

Mirror Master shrugged. “Tossing out the Dark Knight seems like good strategy in general, to be honest. You didn’t have to do all this clandestine work to convince me of it.”

“Well, I know I’m in!” chortled the Joker, throwing his arms up in the air and dancing an impromptu jig. “You can count on me!”

* * *

“Ladies and gentlemen of Columbus, welcome to this year’s Royal Rumble!” Glorious Godfrey’s voice echoed around the auditorium. “The rules are simple: wrestlers enter the ring one at a time every ninety seconds, according to the order pre-determined by lottery. A wrestler is eliminated from competition if he goes over the top rope and both feet hit the ground. The winner is the last wrestler remaining and wins the right to have a championship bout with the new heavyweight champion!”

The camera cut to the ring, where the Dark Knight was already standing alone. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a slight smile on his face. He didn’t look like a man at a great disadvantage. On the huge screen, a clock was counting down from ninety. The crowd knew some of the numbers--the ones the wrestlers had deigned to reveal for plot-related reasons--but in most cases, the identity of the next wrestler was a mystery. Thus the crowd noise sharpened and focused as the numbers got to single digits; a smattering of voices counted down the last numbers until--

A buzzer went off and familiar eerie laughter filled the auditorium as the Joker strode down the ramp and slid into the ring like a venomous snake.

The Dark Knight was ready for him, leaping forward to attack the moment he was in the ring. The two were evenly matched as usual, battling around the squared circle giving and taking blows until the clock hit zero again and--

This time the crowd lifted to its feet in delight and surprise as Wonder Woman’s music hit.

The Amazon rushed down the ring, ignoring the cheers of the crowd, a fierce grin on her face, vaulting into the ring and onto the startled Joker. Within moments she and the Dark Knight were back to back and the Joker was cowering in a corner. The Dark Knight swung around and held out his hand; Diana shook it without hesitation and they fell to work trying to get the Joker out of the ring. 

This proved harder than expected as he capered and gyrated around them, buying himself time until the final seconds ticked off and Solomon Grundy lumbered out from the back to a chorus of yells. Grundy ignored Joker entirely in favor of attacking the two babyfaces, and the tide turned once again.

There was a spot where Wonder Woman managed to lift Grundy up and over the ropes by herself--the crowd gasped in disbelief--and he tumbled over the ropes, becoming the first wrestler to be eliminated. But just as she did, the clock ticked down again--this time the people counting down along with it were louder--and Sinestro swaggered down the ramp and into the ring.

From then on there was a time of chaotic activity as various heels and faces came in and were thrown out. Tim Drake ran in to a chorus of support for the DCW’s favorite underdog, and for a few minutes it looked like he was going to do well as he used the chaos against the other contestants, dodging the stronger ones and causing people to careen into unintended targets. Joker grabbed him and tossed him over the ropes--but he grabbed the top rope and his feet dangled free, not touching the floor. Waiting until the Joker had turned away, assuming he was eliminated, Tim flipped himself back up over the rope and was back in the match--for a few minutes, at least, until he was eliminated unequivocally by Black Manta to a chorus of disappointed boos.

As the match went on, it became increasingly clear that Brainiac’s Injustice League was holding up their end of the bargain: given the chance, they targeted the Dark Knight over anyone else, and they didn’t attack each other at all. The crowd booed lustily as the members of the nascent stable worked over the babyfaces, concentrating on the Dark Knight.

There was a brief moment in the battle, one that people commented on later as foreshadowing, when the Dark Knight, Green Lantern, Aquaman, Flash, and Wonder Woman all stood back to back in the middle of the ring, surrounded by enemies, forced to band together. Each of them were skilled wrestlers, but somehow their communication skills were off, their moves didn’t come together--it was like they were missing some essential piece. One by one they got picked off by the Injustice League, until the Dark Knight was the only one of the top-ranked babyfaces left. 

The clock ticked inexorably down to number twenty-three, the crowd by now bellowing out the last second with gusto, and--

A cheesy 90s synth beat played, one that had never been heard in a DCW arena. Some of the audience seemed confused, but a decent number started to scream and cheer with abandon as Booster Gold, formerly of the JLI, came strutting down the ramp.

Backstage, waiting for his turn in the Gorilla position, Clark couldn’t help but smile at the audience’s reaction. “What the hell,” said Ted Kord, waiting for his cue, “I didn’t think he’d get a bit of pop. They’re happy to see us? They _remember_ us?”

“Of course they do,” said Clark. “You think everyone’s forgotten the JLI? All the good times? The laughs?”

“The lack of cash?” quipped Ted dryly, but he was smiling as he watched Booster Gold enter the ring to the cheers of the crowd. “Atta boy, Mikey,” he said softly. Then he looked at the clock, nearly back down to zero. “Well, time to see if anyone out there remembers a tubby nerd from the old days.”

Clark didn’t say anything to that, but waited with a slight smile until the sound of Beetle’s music and the swelling roar of the crowd proved his suspicions right. “Comedy faces,” he said to Billy Batson, still waiting for his number. “An under-appreciated genre.”

“If you say so,” said Billy, fussing with his gold-embroidered cape, but Clark noticed he was smiling.

* * *

At twenty-six, Amazo came out to a chorus of boos, making his slow, mechanical way to the ring. By this point the Dark Knight was the only babyface left in the ring, Booster and Beetle having gotten simultaneously tossed out by Deathstroke, and he was surrounded by the Injustice League, barely holding his own. As Amazo came into the ring, the Dark Knight put in a flurry of offense, lashing out at all of the heels. He managed to toss Black Manta over the ropes, then delivered a kick to the Joker’s knees that sent the Clown Prince of Crime out of the ring.

However, distracted by Amazo’s attack, the Dark Knight did not notice that the Joker had gone out _between the ropes_ rather than over the top rope. The announcers were sure to mention it as the Joker--at first dazed, then grinning gleefully as he realized what had happened--snuggled up as close as possible to the ring, out of sight of the wrestlers, and waited to make his move.

With a desperate urgency, the Dark Knight managed to clear the ring of everyone but Amazo, and the two put on an impressive set of spots and moves for the rapt crowd. Amazo managed to use signature moves of five different wrestlers, delivering all of them with ease. When Red Tornado ran in at number twenty-seven, Amazo knocked him out effortlessly with his own finisher, then tossed him over the ropes with contempt before turning back to the Dark Knight. Captain Cold and Mister Miracle, at twenty-eight and twenty-nine, met similar quick endings. 

By now the audience was on its feet. They knew that the Kryptonian was the last contestant, and they knew that Brainiac wanted the Dark Knight gone by any means necessary before he reached the ring. Thousands of voices screamed their support as the Dark Knight hung on tenaciously against the inexorable tide of Amazo’s attack, absorbing a flurry of blows to his ribs and face before finally managing to hoist the “android” over the top ring. 

There were twenty seconds left. The Dark Knight stood alone in the ring, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. He staggered, swayed on his feet, and looked to the top of the ramp as the clock ticked down and the audience counted down with it.

“Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...five...four...three...two… _one!_ ”

At the sound of the buzzer, the ominous dark music of the Kryptonian started, and he appeared at the top of the ramp with Brainiac at his side. The camera zoomed in on the Dark Knight’s face, his teeth gritted on his own blood, waiting.

The Kryptonian came down to the ring with Brainiac jabbering urgently at him, climbed the steps with no expression on his face, and entered the ring. His scarlet eyes gazed straight ahead, at and through his opponent.

He advanced on the Dark Knight--then paused.

“Kal,” said the Dark Knight, and his voice cracked and broke into a suddenly-almost-silent arena, straining to catch what was said between the two men. “I won’t fight you, Kal. But you have to fight _him._ ” He pointed at Brainiac, who shrieked in fury and pulled out the long red crystal rod, waving it frantically. The Kryptonian shook his head--then winced in pain and continued to move toward the Dark Knight, his hands outstretched.

The Dark Knight threw himself backwards, slingshotted himself off the ropes--and then ducked under the Kryptonian’s clothesline and threw himself over the top rope.

The crowd moaned in despair as he careened out of the ring, but their groans turned to gasps of amazement as the Dark Knight grabbed the crystal rod out of Brainiac’s hands and landed hard on the announcer’s table. 

From his vantage point in the ring, Clark--keeping his face blank and his hands out--could hear the announcers shrieking that the Dark Knight’s feet _hadn’t touched the ground_ , and therefore he wasn’t eliminated yet. The Kryptonian came to the edge of the ring, gazing down at the Dark Knight--and the Dark Knight raised the red crystal rod above his head and snapped it in two.

The Kryptonian collapsed to his knees, clutching at his head in obvious agony. As Brainiac howled, the Dark Knight then grabbed a rolling chair from the announcer’s table, shoved it forward, and rode it back to the ring, leaping from it and back over the ropes without ever touching the ground and being eliminated. “That isn’t _fair_!” Glorious Godfrey was hyperventilating, while Grodd was patiently explaining that it didn’t technically violate the rules, so…

“Kal,” said the Dark Knight, putting his hands on the Kryptonian’s shoulders. He sank to his knees in front of him and took his head in his hands, tilting his face upward. _”Kal.”_

The Kryptonian looked up--and the crowd gasped again, for his eyes were no longer crimson but bright blue. He was dazed and in pain, tears glittering on his lashes and at the corners of his eyes, and he shook his head in confusion. Swaying to his feet, he gazed around the ring, staring up at the crowds as if he had never seen them before. He looked back at the Dark Knight and for a long moment their eyes locked.

Then, rubbing his forehead, the man who had been called the Kryptonian turned and left the ring, _stepping over the top ropes and to the floor,_ eliminating himself from the Royal Rumble.

As he staggered up the ramp, Clark could hear the audience surging in excited confusion. The Dark Knight was the last man left in the ring, does that mean he--won? He slowed down his steps, waiting for his cue. 

He happened to be looking at a child’s face when it happened, saw the confused delight switch to horror, and knew that the Joker had finished biding his time, had scrambled into the ring and was kicking the wounded Dark Knight with all his strength.

At the top of the ramp, the Kryptonian turned around as the Joker managed to heave the battered, exhausted Dark Knight over the top rope. The Dark Knight clung to the rope for a moment, struggling, but the Joker kicked him hard in the damaged ribs and he let go, crashing to the ground. The bell rang. The Joker had won the Royal Rumble.

The referee came up to try and lift the Joker’s hand, but he shoved him aside and leaped out of the ring to continue beating up the Dark Knight, who was clearly struggling to hang on to consciousness.

The Kryptonian looked down at the ring, his blue eyes puzzled. “Help him!” yelled a child’s voice from the audience. “You have to help him!” The Kryptonian frowned, his head tilted to the side as he watched the Joker attempt to destroy his helpless victim. Then his eyes cleared.

This time, when he ran down to the ring, his movements weren’t robotic; they were full of energy, purpose, passion.

He grabbed the startled Joker and threw him into a barricade in a whirlwind of limbs. The Joker lashed out, but it was useless; his foe was unstoppable, charged with righteous anger. Kal-El hurled him into the Spanish announcer’s table, where Brainiac was still standing, fuming impotently, and sent both of them crashing over the table and into the barricade beyond. 

Then he turned and made his way back to where the Dark Knight was lying, half-conscious and bleeding from the mouth.

Kneeling, he wiped the blood from the corner of his former-enemy’s mouth, almost tenderly. The Dark Knight managed to get himself upright, staring at Kal-El. Kal-El smiled at him, a small and clumsy smile, as if he had almost forgotten how.

Then Kal-El helped the Dark Knight to his feet and they made their way out of the arena to the cheers of the crowd. They hadn’t won the Royal Rumble, but they had won something much more important.

All Clark could think as they stopped at the top of the ring to look back at their fallen enemies (and give the crowd a last delirious moment to cheer them) was that the Kryptonian gimmick was dead--at last, at last, at last.

* * *

“You have no idea how hard it was not to kiss the tears on your lashes away, you ridiculous man,” Bruce said later, as they curled up around each other in their hotel room. “You never told me you could cry on cue.”

“Well,” said Clark, “It did help that I’d been poking at my eyes to get those damn contacts out.” He’d dropped them on the mat and “accidentally” crushed them, too, enjoying the tiny crunch beneath his knee. “How about you?” he went on, touching the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “You told Amazo to hit you stiff, didn’t you? You just had to have that touch of scarlet.”

Bruce kissed his finger lightly. “That’s me, always looking for the good visual.”

“Hard to beat the two of us at the top of the ramp with our arms around each other,” Clark said.

“We are hard to beat, aren’t we?” Bruce sounded smug. “In every way.”


	56. Debut of a Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman debuts in Metropolis, and his parents are there to witness it.

_ I was totally brainwashed by my childhood idols: comic book heroes like Superman, the Lone Ranger, and one of my all-time favorites, Zorro. There was no doubt in my mind that saving the helpless from injustice, thwarting evil and winding up with the beautiful damsel in distress was what life was all about. . . . I’d protect the weak, stop evil in its tracks and fly above the real world just like Clark Kent. That’s right, I was going to become a professional wrestler. --Larry Zbyszko _

“I just imagined something with more, uh, trumpet to it. You know, like the beginning of ‘Fanfare for the Common Man.’”

Harley Rathaway arched a dubious eyebrow at Clark. “You do realize we’re starting to get into seriously cheesy territory here.”

Clark shrugged. “I don’t mind cheesy. I think I can make it work. I just want something that’s bold yet kind of...humble? Something that says ‘I’m here to help.’”

Rathaway exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Oh, _just_ that, huh? Let’s see, hold on…” He tinkered with his computer for a little, tapping the keyboard and muttering to himself. “Okay,” he finally said, “How about this?”

He hit play--and Clark sat up, his eyebrows rising. A lone trumpet, synthesized but clear, sang out five ringing notes, then rose up--and fell once more, three hopeful, almost plaintive notes sliding down the scale. The first five notes came again, a call repeated--and like a clarion, this time a whole orchestra came in to answer, bright and joyous, lifting the song upward into the sky.

“That’s it,” Clark said. His throat felt tight and he swallowed hard. “That’s my theme.”

“That’s Superman’s theme,” Hathaway corrected him. “And if you think you can live up to it, well, more power to you.”

* * *

“Of course you can live up to it,” Bruce said, letting go of the steering wheel to sock him on the shoulder. “What kind of dumb question is that? You’re not going to let the DCW composer rattle your confidence after coming so far, are you?”

“No, but…” Clark took another bite of his burger. “I don’t know, all the primary colors and trumpet music...doesn’t it risk coming off as kind of arrogant?”

Bruce mulled that over for a while, as the lights of the city slid across his face. “Do you think you would have liked Superman as a kid?” he said at last.

“Someone bright and fun and heroic who came running to save people and defeated evil?” Clark couldn’t help but smile a little. “I would have loved him. I _did_ love lots of wrestlers just like him. But am I the right person to…” He waved his burger in the air, searching for words, “to _embody_ someone like that?”

“I can’t think of anyone better,” said Bruce. “No, listen to me!” he went on when Clark made a “you have to say that, you’re my boyfriend” noise. “Look. It’ll work, Clark. You _know_ it’ll work, you just don’t intellectually understand how it will, but I can explain it.” He frowned at the road, then said: “It’s your very doubt that makes it possible. Some wrestlers, when they play a pure babyface like that...they believe their own hype. They think they really are amazing and heroic and admirable. And that sucks all the depth from the character they’re playing, makes it into a plaster shell. That’s why heels are so often more interesting than faces, because the people playing them know they’re not really evil, or a coward, or a psychopath. The real person beneath the heel role adds just enough light and depth that it’s compelling. And having the _real_ Clark--a good man, yes, but one who doesn’t believe that he’s some messiah or savior--beneath a bright and simple character like Superman will make it rich and believable to everyone.” He nodded to himself. “That’s how it’ll work.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I _know_ I’m right.” Bruce put on his blinker, turned into the hotel parking lot. “So just trust me, okay? You trust me to catch you when you go over the top rope, you should trust me about this.”

“Jumping over the top rope is easier,” muttered Clark, but didn’t argue further with him.

* * *

“Ma!” Clark hurried forward into his mother’s embrace, then threw his arms around his father in turn. “How was your flight?”

“No problems,” said Jonathan Kent, thumping him on the back. “You’re looking well.”

“So are you both,” said Clark, and it was true. The haggard lines that he remembered from when they had trouble making the mortgage were gone and they were smiling.

Martha Kent looked around as they headed for Metropolis Airport baggage claim, trying to seem casual. “So, it is it just you here, or…”

“Bruce had to stay a little late at the gym. He should be at the apartment when we get there and we’ll go get some supper.”

“That sounds nice, dear,” said Martha. “Now, tell us all about this match you have coming up tomorrow. Who are you working with? Are you going to win?”

Clark grinned at her. “Superman’s debut is against Winslow Schott.”

“The Toyman!” Martha exclaimed. “Oh, he’s a creepy one.”

“And you know I can’t tell you if I win or not,” he chided her.

“Well, a mother’s got to ask,” she said cheerfully, unabashed. “I certainly hope you do.”

“Have a little faith in your son,” laughed Jonathan Kent.

“I have _complete_ faith in our son,” Martha huffed at him. “It’s that treacherous snake Luthor I don’t trust. You should be the heavyweight champion by now--that Nightwing seems like a very nice boy, but Luthor keeps burying you when he should be pushing you to the stars.”

“Now, Ma, you’ve been reading too many dirt sheets. Remember, Luthor’s running a big business and can’t cater to individual wrestlers’ careers.”

Martha sniffed angrily at that suggestion, but held her tongue from then, making small talk as they picked up the luggage and drove toward the apartment.

“And here we are,” Clark said at last, throwing open the door and ushering them inside. “Home sweet home.”

And indeed, the once-bare Metropolis apartment that he and Bruce shared felt like a home now, full of clutter and life, from the action figures lining the mantel to the books and papers piled up on chairs and tables rather than on the cases where they belonged. There was a fire in the fireplace, there was some Miles Davis playing quietly, everything was perfect for the Kents’ arrival.

Only Bruce was missing.

“Um, he probably ran out to get something he forgot,” Clark said after a quick search of the tiny apartment. He glanced at his phone: no message. “How about you two just have a seat and rest a bit and I’ll, uh...I’ll be right back.” 

He let the apartment door swing shut behind him and stood in the hall for a moment, thinking.

Then he went to the stairs and climbed up to the roof access.

It was a foggy night, and the skyline was shrouded in mist. If Clark hadn’t been looking carefully, he might have missed the figure in the shadows, looking out over the city.

Bruce didn’t say anything as Clark came up behind him and put his arms around him, but Clark felt his shoulders shift in a sigh.

“Are you ready?” Clark said after a contemplative moment.

There was another long pause. “What if they don’t like me?” said Bruce, and his voice sounded very young.

Clark smiled and kissed the side of his head. “Pa always says ‘We’ll close that barn door when we come to it.’”

Bruce thought about that. “I’m betting your Pa doesn’t actually say that,” he said, and Clark could hear the laughter sparking underneath his words.

“Well, you’ll never know if you don’t come down and meet him, now, will you?”

Bruce leaned back into him and took another deep breath. “A fair point,” he admitted. He took Clark’s hand. “I’m ready.”

* * *

Within a few minutes of meeting, of course, Bruce and the Kents were getting along as wonderfully as Clark had known they would. By the time they were seated at the restaurant, Martha and Bruce were deep in conversation. Martha had found many of his old indie matches on the Internet and was happily discussing his early fights while Jonathan smiled into his beer. 

”That promo you cut against Kyodai Ken in Tokyo was brilliant, dear. But the match after looked terribly stiff--was that blood hardway?”

If Bruce found it amusing that Martha knew all the right wrestling lingo, not a flicker of it reached his eyes. “Ken never thought a young foreigner would be able to wrestle the Japanese strong style. He didn’t pull a lot of punches--and yes, all that blood was from his knuckles hitting my forehead.”

“Well, what a horrible man,” said Martha. “I’m so glad you and Clark are working in a promotion that doesn’t rely on that gory stuff. Luthor certainly has his flaws, but at least he doesn’t go for cheap shock like that.”

“Speaking of Luthor and his flaws,” said Jonathan, “Have you two ever considered leaving the DCW? Maybe starting up your own promotion?”

Clark stared at his father and waited for Bruce to laugh at the idea, but instead there was a thoughtful silence that caused him to look at Bruce in surprise.

“Starting a promotion takes more than money,” Bruce said at last. “The amount of infrastructure, the amount of contacts and skilled labor it takes--the groundwork is staggering. With something like staged gladiatorial combat--as you can probably imagine, the labor laws involved can be a nightmare, and having friends in politics really helps. I don’t have...many friends, much less ones highly-placed in the government. Starting a promotion from nothing...well, it’s a huge challenge. It would take years of preparation.”

Jonathan looked at Bruce for a long, reflective moment. Then he smiled. “You’re not in any rush, son.”

Bruce looked down abruptly at his plate at that last word, some complex emotion tugging at his lips. He reached out and punched Clark lightly on the shoulder. “Well, any future I have, I hope to share with Clark,” he said. He paused, and now Clark could see that there was more color in his cheeks than usual. “I mean, if that’s not too forward to say.”

Martha started laughing and had to hide her face behind her napkin. “Clark,” she managed eventually, “Are you _sure_ this is the wrestler they call the Dark and Remorseless Spirit of Vengeance on Reddit?”

Bruce waves one hand in a helpless gesture: part “I surrender,” part “help me,” and part “your mother _reads Reddit?”_ Clark snagged it out of the air and brought it down gently to the table, resisting the urge to press a kiss onto the bruised knuckles. “I told you you’d like him,” he said to his parents.

* * *

Clark stood in the Gorilla position, listening as the audience booed the Toyman. He twitched at his tights, fidgeted with his cape. All his friends were in a clump nearby, waiting: Dick, Tim, Selena, Diana. “He had his first professional match against me, you know,” Mr. Miracle was telling everyone. Even Billy Batson was there, looking torn between glower and pride. And Bruce was at his side, in full Billionaire Brucie mode for a later promo. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Bruce said. “You look great. You’ll be great. You’re a hero.” He reached out his fist for Clark to bump and shot him a wry smile. “The world needs more heroes.”

As the ring announcer started her introduction: _And the challenger, hailing from the planet Krypton--_ Bruce suddenly said, “Wait, wait!” Hurriedly, he ruffled Clark’s slicked-back hair, making it looser and more relaxed. Then he reached up and twisted a lock of damp hair around his finger. When he released it, Clark felt that single curl fall onto his forehead. 

Bruce looked at him critically. “That’s it,” he said. “I knew you were missing something. You’re ready now.” Then he rose on his toes just a fraction to press a quick kiss to Clark’s forehead. “Go get them.”

The first lonely notes of Superman’s new theme music rang out. Clark stepped forward and put his head down, waiting for the moment of the trumpet flourish to step out into the arena for the first time. He probably should have been thinking something meaningful, something profound. He probably should have been feeling thankful and humble. Instead, only one thought went through his mind:

_Please, God...don’t let me look ridiculous._

* * *

Some wrestlers have big dramatic debuts. Sometimes everyone knows right away that this person, this gimmick, is a big deal and is going places. Sometimes the crowd is electric and the roar is deafening and everyone knows they’ve witnessed something historic.

The debut of Superman was not one of those. Oh, it was a perfectly fine first appearance. The crowd cheered him as he came to the ring, applauded his rather quick win over the Toyman when he laid him out with his flying punch. But it was the applause of people who were dutifully cheering a babyface, not a visceral surge of joy and love. Later, people who were in attendance in Metropolis that night would say _I was there, you know? I was there the night Superman debuted. It was incredible, man. It was unbelievable._ But that’s the power of wrestling--events ripple backwards, making things that seemed small at the time loom momentous and earth-shattering in the collective memory.

Superman stood in the middle of the ring, hands on his hips, and smiled at the crowd. Clark Kent saw his parents’ faces, watched his father wiping at his eyes and his mother jumping up and down. He thought of Bruce and his friends, waiting in the back to embrace him. 

As he walked up the ramp and the crowd stilled, preparing for the next match, one small child reached to him across the barricade, calling “I love you, Superman!” and beaming when they touched hands for a moment.

 _This was the greatest debut ever,_ Clark thought.


	57. My Hand Touching Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Injustice League gains in power, and neither Superman nor the Dark Knight can seem to find allies.

_ I’mma reach out right now, I want you at home to know my hand is touchin’ your hand for the gathering of the biggest body of people in this country, in this universe, all over the world now, reachin’ out because the love that was given me and this time I will repay you now. --Dusty Rhodes, “Hard Times” promo _

“No,” said Clark.

“Oh come on,” said Bruce. “It’ll be fun.”

“Well, sure it would, but--that’s not the _point_ ,” protested Clark. “You’re the former heavyweight champion, Bruce. The tag team division is a major drop down the card for you.”

“Don’t run down the tag division,” Bruce chided him. “Besides, I’m just coming back from a severe injury. You’re starting over with a new gimmick. It makes perfect sense we’d start off in the tag team division, so why not be on the same team?” He shot Clark a glance out of the corner of his eye. “You know, we’ve never tagged together,” he said. “The only time we even came close was when you were pretending to be the Dark Knight that one time, and that wasn’t the same at all. This is a great chance for our characters to build a relationship together.” He looked away. “Of course, if you’d rather they _didn’t_ have any kind of relationship together…”

Clark whacked him with a pillow. “I’m just saying you can do better,” he said.

“Better than you as a partner?” Bruce’s smile was as beautiful as a perfect moonsault. “Never.” He nodded, all business again. “We’ll talk to Mark and Grant tomorrow and see about possible storylines.” Rolling onto his back, he looked up the ceiling as if he could already see it all playing out like a movie. “It’ll be _great_.”

* * *

“The following match is set for one fall, and it is for the tag team championship!” called the ring announcer. 

The challengers stood in one corner of the ring, sneering: Captain Cold and Heat Wave, gunning to take back the titles that had once belonged to them.

Roy Harper held up his title belt, not _quite_ taunting the two heels, and shared a grin with his partner, Wally West. “Team Lightning Arrow’s going to take care of you two in no time flat,” he said just before the bell rang.

It was a good match, with a fair amount of back and forth offense on both sides, but it quickly became clear that the champions had the edge. They were younger, faster, more fired up. Captain Cold and Heat Wave grew more and more desperate, and the crowd was baying for their blood. It looked like West was about to pin Heat Wave, when a sharp wolf whistle split the air and a slender figure with bright blue hair ran down to the ring to start arguing with the referee. As Killer Frost distracted the ref, Captain Cold cheerfully grabbed a chair and jumped into the ring to whack Wally West’s arm a few times. He was out of the ring, the chair tossed away, by the time the referee turned back around, and despite the furious protests of the crowd, he clearly saw nothing amiss in the situation. As Wally clutched at his arm and Roy Harper screamed at their opponents from his corner, Heat Wave made the pin--and the tag team championship belonged to them once more.

Killer Frost linked arms with Heat Wave and Captain Cold as they waltzed up the ramp together, the titles held above their heads in their free hands. “Long live Injustice!” she cried before they left to the shrieks of a maddened crowd, leaving a broken Wally West and infuriated Roy Harper behind.

* * *

The backstage camera revealed an agitated Dark Knight pacing back and forth in the locker room in his cowl and cape (no one ever seemed to find it unusual that the Dark Knight never removed them, even backstage). “We have to do something!” he announced to a group of wrestlers with dispirited postures and downcast eyes. “This so-called ‘Injustice League’ is ruining matches, destroying careers!”

“And you’re here to tell us we’ve got to band together against them? Really? _You_?” said Hal Jordan after a long awkward silence. “You’ve never worked with any of us, you’ve always been the lone wolf, and now suddenly you’ve discovered teamwork is a great thing? Forgive me if I don’t buy in,” he said. “I’m going to get Sinestro for what he did to John, but I’ll do it on my own.” He brandished his ring and slammed out of the room.

The Dark Knight appealed to the remaining wrestlers. “Look at who holds all the titles--Captain Cold and Heat Wave hold the tag team title, Cheetah practically robbed Wonder Woman of her title, John Stewart ended up _hospitalized_ after Mongul took the United States Championship from him--members of the Injustice League hold all of them but the heavyweight title!”

“And that one’s held by _your_ boy,” said Orion sullenly, standing in the corner with his arms crossed.

“Dick is his own man, he’s not _mine,_ ” The Dark Knight snapped.

“Oh, so even _he_ won’t work with you anymore,” Orion said with the air of a person making an airtight argument. “Why should the rest of us?”

The Dark Knight looked around the locker room. “We worked together at the Royal Rumble to defeat them, we proved it can be done. Who’s with me?”

No one made eye contact with him.

There were shrugs all around, and the other babyfaces--Flash, Aquaman, Orion, Mr. Miracle, Green Arrow--wandered off without looking at the Dark Knight, leaving him standing alone in the locker room, glaring after them.

* * *

Next week it was Green Arrow who caught the brunt of the Injustice League’s wrath. The camera caught him pulling into the parking lot of the Star City Auditorium, getting out of his green Arrowmobile (it was a Volkswagen Bug) with his duffel bag, and heading toward the backstage door, when suddenly a shadowy figure leaped out and punched him in the face. He fought back valiantly, but his enemy had the element of surprise and soon enough had him hobbling on a badly hurt leg.

“Good luck with that fight against Amazo,” smirked Deathstroke as he dusted off his hands. “And long live Injustice!”

* * *

As a wincing Oliver Queen held ice to his calf, Superman was holding forth to the same set of babyfaces that the Dark Knight had been appealing to in vain last week. “Green Arrow didn’t have a _chance_ against Amazo after that! Are we all going to just stand around and let those honorless cowards destroy us one by one?”

“Hey,” the Flash said, holding up a finger, “You were _working for_ Brainiac just a little while ago, buster, don’t think we’ve forgotten that!”

“But I--” Superman sputtered, “He was controlling me! I’ve broken free!”

“How gullible do you think we are?” Aquaman growled, and pushed past him and out the door. The others followed, leaving only Green Arrow behind. Superman went to help him to his feet, but Queen shook his hand off. 

“I can fight my own battles, _Kryptonian,_ " he said, and was gone, leaving a stricken Superman gazing after him.

* * *

Another match against the Toyman, another match in the low-mid-card. Clark didn’t mind, though--in a way it was almost a relief, having the pressure off him for a time. He’d be climbing back up the card soon enough, he knew that. And for now--

As Toyman ground his face into the turnbuckle, Clark caught sight of a group of kids in the front row, decked out in Green Lantern gear from head to toe, cheering and waving for him--not because they were Superman fans _per se_ , but because he was the good guy and they wanted him to win. Superman struggled back to punch Toyman in the face a few times, and as he did Winslow Schott closed one eye in what might have looked like a wince to anyone else, but Clark knew what it meant: _I saw them too. Let’s do this._

Superman’s brief flurry of offense came to an abrupt end when Toyman suddenly caught him in the Silly Putty, a hold that contorted his body and caused titanic agony, graven on his face. Clark could hear the kids crying out shrilly: _Come on! Come on! You can do it!_ When he finally broke free, clearly weakened and staggering, Toyman kicked him hard in the ribs and sent him tumbling out of the ring, then followed him outside to deliver a stinging cuff to his face.

Dazed, reeling, on the edge of total defeat, Superman stumbled backwards away from Toyman--and collapsed to the floor directly in front of the troop of Green Lantern fans.

He sagged there, gasping for breath, the picture of broken defeat, and he could feel small hands touching his head, touching his bowed shoulders. The children put their hands on him, and he could _feel_ them willing him to get up, to be strong, to keep fighting, please, _keep fighting_. He reached up with one shaking hand and felt each of them touch him like a talisman, like a sacrament and a benediction, a gift of energy from them to him. A gift.

Toyman threw back his head and laughed, an unhinged peal that broke off suddenly as Superman surged up and forward as if re-energized, renewed by the touch of the faithful. The crowd shrieked with joy, and Clark heard the children behind him gasp with wonder as he delivered a roundhouse punch to the Toyman that sent him staggering backwards. Superman rose up from certain defeat and trounced the Toyman, throwing him back into the ring and pinning him for the three-count and the bell. Schott threw an arm over his face as if in chagrined defeat; from its cover he smiled briefly at Clark, a satisfied and complicit grin: _We did good._

Clark let the ref raise his hand, rolled out of the ring to high five the Green Lantern fans. “I couldn’t have done it without you!” he yelled over the cheers, and watched their eyes light up.

* * *

“Nice work,” Bruce said later, draped across him on an uncomfortable hotel couch. “You gave those kids a real treat tonight.” 

“Mm,” Clark said thoughtfully. “It goes both ways.” He was still feeling a strange, giddy afterglow: as if he had briefly been a conduit for an incandescent faith and hope and love.

“Of course it does,” said Bruce. He took Clark’s hand and rested their palms together, their fingers lightly touching. “That’s what it’s all about, you know, this whole business. Heroes that you can touch--feel their sweat, see their tears and their blood. Heroes that can hear you and gain strength from your voice. An abstract idea of Justice or Villainy or Courage, given a body that can be broken or triumphant right before your eyes.” He laced his fingers through Clark’s and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. 

“My hand touching your hand,” he whispered.


	58. Enter the Mysterious Figure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman and the Dark Knight team up, and a Mysterious Figure seems to be pulling the strings behind the Injustice League.

_ Wrestling is a stupid show for dumb idiot babies, but talking and worrying about it constructively are the most fun things in the world. You get into the fake histories and lives of these fictional characters as they travel the world, getting into fights that could easily be solved with some reason and sanity but always end in chair fights and broken tables. It’s weird. It rarely makes sense. --Brandon Stroud _

“I’ve had up to _here_ with this ‘Injustice League,’” Lex Luthor raged in his office, his image cast onto the arena monitors. “They think they’re in charge of this promotion--well, I’ll show them who’s really in charge!” He pointed at Otis, who almost dropped his pencil. “Tell Heat Wave that tonight he’ll fight...the Dark Knight.”

Offscreen, the sound volume ticked up a notch at the sound of one of their favorites’ names.

“And tell Captain Cold that he’ll be fighting…” Luthor snapped his fingers a few times. “...That new guy, what’s his name.”

“Superman?” said Otis, and backstage Clark grinned to hear that there was a noticeable upswell in sound from the audience again--not as much as at the Dark Knight, but it was there.

“Yeah, that guy,” said Luthor. “That’ll remind the so-called ‘tag team champs’ who still calls the shots around here.”

“Sure thing, boss,” said Otis, saluting and wandering off.

Lex Luthor steepled his fingers and smiled. “Yes,” he said to himself, “That will show them indeed…”

* * *

The camera closed up on the piece of paper in Superman’s hand: _Need help. Meet me in the parking garage, level A-4. Kon._ A small Superman shield was added, just in case viewers forgot that the wrestler formerly known as the Metropolis Kid was Superman’s cloned son. The camera panned up to take in Superman’s grim face as he folded the piece of paper up. 

Fade to black.

* * *

After the next match, another piece of paper in close-up--this one held in a black-gloved hand. This time it said _Need help. Meet me in the parking garage, level A-4. Nightwing._ The camera pulled back to show the Dark Knight, his jaw set.

Fade to black.

* * *

After the commercial break, the show started with footage that looked plausibly like a feed from a security camera, trained on an empty parking garage.

“Kon?” Superman’s hushed voice carried to the mic, and the fledgling hero came into view. He turned around so that he was backing into the frame, crouched and ready for an ambush.

As he did so, the Dark Knight backed into the camera range from the other side, his fists up to protect himself from an attack. Step by step they backed toward each other--until they collided back to back, whirling to confront each other.

“Oh, it’s you,” said the Dark Knight. “Did you send me this?”

Superman looked at it and his expression grew grimmer. “Not unless you sent me this,” he said, holding up his own note.

“I think,” said the Dark Knight, “That we’ve both been set up.”

“Well,” said Superman, with a grin, “I think they’ll find it was a mistake to ambush both of us at the same time in the same place.”

There was a rattling bang just outside the range of the camera, like someone knocking over something heavy, and both of the wrestlers spun to put their backs to each other, their fists up and ready.

“There are a lot of them,” Superman said calmly, gazing off-camera.

“I think we can take them,” said the Dark Knight. He was smiling.

“You want some?” Superman called into the shadows, taunting. _”Come get some!”_

What followed was an epic backstage brawl, with Superman and the Dark Knight using everything in the garage to fight back against eight members of the Injustice League. Superman got clocked in the face with a garbage can, and the Dark Knight got suplexed over the hood of a car, but at the end of it the two of them stood triumphant over eight groaning heels.

“We make a good team,” said Superman. Clark could taste blood in his mouth from that shot with the garbage can; he rubbed at the corner of his mouth but was disappointed to find there was no color. _Couldn’t you have hit me a little harder, Amazo?_ “I never thanked you, you know. For breaking Brainiac’s hold on me. It feels good to be free at last.”

“I don’t like to see anyone enslaved,” the Dark Knight growled. “That doesn’t mean we’d make a good team.”

“But we _would_ ,” Superman insisted. “Can’t you see? Someone needs to stand up to this Injustice League--and I think we’re the ones to do it.” He held out his hand. “At least let’s give it a try,” he said.

The Dark Knight looked at Superman’s outstretched hand for a long moment. “You may not be my enemy--but you haven’t proven you’re a friend yet, either,” he said. Clark allowed his face to fall for a moment before Bruce went on: “But for now, you’re apparently the only option I’ve got.” He reached out and shook hands with Superman.

Even from the parking garage, Clark could hear the whooping cheers and applause, and the delight in his smile at the Dark Knight was entirely unfeigned.

* * *

“In light of tonight’s...events,” said Lex Luthor, “I’ve decided that instead of facing the Dark Knight and Superman separately, Captain Cold and Heat Wave will now face them in a tag team match--with the titles on the line!” He pointed at the chagrined tag team champs, who were shuffling their feet and looking down. “Sending ambushes against other wrestlers--this kind of reckless and unprofessional behavior _will not stand,_ do you hear me? You’re lucky I don’t strip you of those titles right here and now! Now get out of my office,” he said, pointing angrily to the door.

* * *

“Ready?” Bruce asked, holding his fist up for Clark to bump.

“As always,” said Clark, touching his knuckles to it.

The plotline of the match was that the Dark Knight and Superman didn’t know each other well, or truly trust each other yet. On the other hand, for all their bickering, Captain Cold and Heat Wave were an integrated team with many matches under the very belts that they swaggered down to the ring in. 

The match started rocky for the new partners, when there was a disagreement about who should start the match in the ring and who should wait on the outside. _”I’m_ the former heavyweight champion!” barked the Dark Knight, gesturing for Superman to leave the ring. Superman glared, but after a brief, tense staredown he shrugged and went to the apron, waiting. 

Of course, Superman immediately felt the need to yell advice at the Dark Knight--”Roll him up! Get his shoulders down! What? I’m just trying to help!” Distracted, the Dark Knight caught a clothesline from Captain Cold and went down hard on the mat, receiving a few extra kicks in the process. “Tag me!” yelled Superman. “Get over here and tag me! I’m fresh!” But the Dark Knight instead struggled to his feet and launched himself back at his opponent, leaving a frustrated Superman standing on the apron.

“Dang it!” Superman bellowed. Clark saw some people in the front row giggling at his choice of language, so he decided to play it up a bit: “Tag me, gosh darn it!” The Dark Knight took a hard suplex and Superman winced, crying out “Great Scott!” Clark had no idea how much the mic was picking up, but the people in the front row seemed to be eating it up.

Finally, the Dark Knight seemed to make up his mind that tagging in his over-enthusiastic partner was a better option than getting beaten up, and started to make his way toward Superman’s corner. Captain Cold, however, tagged in Heat Wave, and his fresh partner tackled the Dark Knight and dragged him back to the center of the ring. Superman stretched out his hand, agonized, and the Dark Knight tried to reach him but was pulled back into a new barrage of punches. he fought back with an elbow to the jaw, then a quick drop kick. Jumping to his feet, he threw himself across the ring and tagged Superman.

The crowd cheered as Superman vaulted the ropes into the ring and started assaulting Heat Wave, but Heat Wave fell back, luring Superman into their corner. When he tagged in Captain Cold in turn, the two of them took advantage of the five-second grace period before Heat Wave had to leave the ring to double-team Superman with their signature move, the Fire and Ice Combo. Reeling, caught far from his own corner and the Dark Knight waiting there, Superman staggered into a Captain Cold’s uppercut finisher (the Cold Cut, of course) and collapsed with a thud.

A three-count and a bell-ring later, and the tag team titles were retained by Heat Wave and Captain Cold, and the newest tag team in the division had met their first defeat.

* * *

“If _you_ had tagged me in sooner, we would have won!” Superman snapped. Superman and the Dark Knight were glaring at each other over the Jimmy Olsen’s head backstage after the match. “If you hadn’t been so busy playing the alpha male, we could have the titles around our waists right now!”

“Well, if _you_ hadn’t been so over-confident and let them double-team you, we could have beaten them! I never should have teamed up with you, we’re obviously not a good match.”

“Well, it’s sure not going to happen again,” growled Superman.

“Guys?” Olsen broke in timidly. “Guys? I guess you haven’t heard that Lex Luthor has decided you two are going to be a regular tag team from now on? If you want to work in the DCW, you’ll have to work together.”

“ _What?_ ” The Dark Knight’s fury was nearly incandescent. “Work with--with that cocksure, headstrong, musclebound--” He broke off into sputtering that, Clark thought, hid fairly well that if he had continued with his litany of insults he risked breaking into giggles.

Superman rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe this. I manage to break free of Brainiac only to be saddled with some...some… _Bat-Man_ who dresses up in a funny suit and hides his face.” He stuck his fingers up behind his ears to mimic the bat ears, and Clark could hear the audience shrieking with laughter at the image of the solemn, serious Dark Knight reduced to nearly-wordless fury by his own tag team partner.

“Funny suit! Says the guy dressed with an S on his chest! I don’t know what it’s for, but it sure isn’t ‘smart’”!

“It stands for ‘hope’!”

There was a long comedic beat as the Dark Knight looked from the S to his partner’s face and back again. “Hope doesn’t start with an S,” he finally pointed out.

“It’s too complicated to explain to the likes of you,” huffed Superman, turning on his heel with a flick of his cape and exiting the scene.

Clark barely managed to get out of camera range before Dick pounced on him. “Bat-Man? _Bat-Man?”_ he hissed as Clark tried to shush him. “That’s gold, right there. Bat-Man and Super-Man, the two dumbest names in wrestling!”

“Nightwing is hardly high poetry,” Bruce said, coming over as the cameras turned off and the director said “Cut!”

“It’s a thousand times better than Bat-Man,” Dick said, dissolving into chortles once more.

“I like Batman,” said Bruce, and Clark wasn’t sure how he could hear him removing the hyphen and making it one word, but he could. _Only Bruce._ “It’s simple. Clean. And it matches Clark’s name.” He smiled at Clark, a brief, conspiratorial flicker, and Clark resisted the urge to kiss him. 

“Now we just need a team name,” said Clark.

“I’ve got some ideas,” said Bruce. “But we won’t need one for a while, not until we’re getting along better.”

“Good promo, guys!” yelled Mick Rory on his way to his own promo, his Heat Wave goggles shoved up on top of his head.

“Good match!” Clark called back. “Thanks!”

“I’ve got some ideas for the next one,” said Bruce, taking Clark’s arm. He had the next six matches all mapped out in turns of their “relationship arc,” complete with diagrams and outlines scribbled into a notebook with bats on the cover. “Let’s talk.”

Clark grinned at Bruce as he was steered toward a corner. “Let’s.”

* * *

The camera--this time the “invisible camera” that captured wrestlers’ actions without their awareness sometimes--hovered near enough to catch Captain Cold and Heat Wave in intense conversation in a darkened room. Around them sat other members of the Injustice League: Poison Ivy and Two-Face, Amazo and Agamemno, Brainiac and Cheetah. Joker sat alone in a corner, chuckling quietly to himself.

“--No, I don’t know who he is,” Heat Wave was saying to Captain Cold. “No one’s gotten a good look at his face. I mean, the Key said he was going to try to, and no one ever saw him again. I’m not risking that!”

There were beads of sweat on Captain Cold’s brow. “I don’t like this, man. I want to know who’s who, not be led around by some mysterious weirdo in a--”

The television screen on the wall flickered into life, revealing a figure shrouded in black, his face hidden within the folds of a cloak. “My followers,” it said, and the voice was distorted, warped somehow, hardly recognizable as human. “My loyal and faithful servants.”

The camera happened to catch Joker rolling his eyes at that, but most of the others looked nervous, their heads bent, their postures submissive.

“We are entering the era of a new reign of terror and strength,” intoned the Mysterious Figure. It pointed with one black-draped hand. “Captain Cold, your doubts and lack of faith have been duly noted.”

“Sir, no sir,” stammered Captain Cold as everyone turned to look at him. “I’m fully committed, sir.”

“Good,” said the Mysterious Figure. “And now, we must turn our attention to the destruction of our greatest foe-- _Lex Luthor._ We shall strike first at that which is precious to him--although even he does not know it yet. We shall--”

Suddenly Two-Face’s voice rang out: “Is that a camera there?” All of the villains turned to face the camera simultaneously, giving the audience the unpleasant experience of having some of the scariest heels in the DCW staring directly at them. A babble of angry voices broke out.

On the screen, the Mysterious Figure raised his hand--and all went black.


	59. Twitter Feud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman and Batman take on Captain Cold and Heat Wave--both in the ring and on Twitter.

_ When you think you know the answers, I change the questions. --Roddy Piper _

“Jesus, why’d you have to rent a sports car?” grumbled Leonard Snart from the back seat. “My knees are going to ache like a son of a bitch by the time we get there.”

“Billionaire Brucie has an image to maintain,” said Bruce, throwing the car into a higher gear and speeding up as I-44 opened up before them on the way from Tulsa to Oklahoma City.

“So you gotta rent a car in-character, but you don’t mind traveling with your hated rivals for the tag team championship?” sniped Mick Rory.

“You’re not traveling with Superman and Batman, you’re traveling with Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne,” said Bruce. “No alignment problems there--well, Kent’s a bit of a goody-goody, but we can always claim we didn’t have any choice but to put up with him.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Clark. “So you’re serious about the whole ‘Batman’ thing? ‘The Dark Knight’ is a much cooler name.”

“It sounds so much better with ‘Superman,’” said Bruce. “Besides, you gave it to me.”

“Ah, get a room, you two,” groused Mick without looking up from his phone.

“Not until Oklahoma City,” Bruce said breezily, which was the usual way he replied to anyone hinting their relationship was more than just friends. Those hints had experienced a definite uptick recently, but generally they were low-key and good-natured, and Bruce continued to almost-acknowledge them while never quite addressing them. For his part, Clark had turned red and stammered the first time Harvey Dent had casually asked Clark how he and Bruce would be spending Valentine’s Day, and since then few people had needled him about it.

“Okay,” said Mick now, “I just posted on Twitter that I was looking forward to roasting you in Oklahoma City. Got a good comeback to that, Kent?”

“Hold on,” Clark said, tapping on his phone. “There you go.”

“What’d you say?” said Bruce.

Snart held up his phone. “‘ _Your insults aren’t so hot, Heat Wave,_ ’” he read out loud. “That’s terrible, Clark.”

“Come on, you can do better than that,” Mick said as Bruce groaned.

“I’m not as good at this as Bruce,” Clark complained. “And he’s driving.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Bruce said, and rattled off four retorts in quick succession, all based around fire and ice puns (“Got to make sure Snart’s involved too.”) Clark went with a couple of them and soon enough the three of them--and Bruce by proxy--were embroiled (“No pun intended,” said Clark. “I hope not,” said Bruce) in a raging Twitter feud that got them a lot of retweets and fans weighing in on both sides.

“You’d better throw in a jab about having to work with that ridiculous, self-important Batman while you’re at it,” said Bruce. “Unhyphenated, please.”

“Can I use scare quotes?”

“Now _that’s_ a decent pun,” said Snart. “Because he’s scary, see, and...oh, never mind.”

Bruce shrugged. “Just lose the hyphen, okay?”

“Bruce, you practically saved my life twice now,” Clark complained. “It’s not very good continuity that we’re sniping at each other like this.”

Bruce honest-to-God _cackled_. “What’s the fun of a tag team if they get along right away? Why should Fire and Ice back there have all the fun, anyway? Look, if you want a motivation, maybe I realized once I’d broken your brainwashing that you’re even more powerful than I suspected, and that makes me uneasy. Or maybe you’re just so gosh-darn _good_ that I’m a little suspicious of you. I mean, all that kissing babies and giving speeches about truth and justice--no one’s really that nice, right?”

“I kind of liked the truth and justice speech,” Clark muttered, and heard Mick and Leonard snickering in the back seat. “Oh, shut up,” he said over his shoulder.

“Oooooh,” said Leonard. “He told us to shut up, that isn’t very nice, is it, Mick?”

“It isn’t, Leonard. My image of Superman is completely destroyed,” Mick agreed solemnly before dissolving into giggles.

“It’s okay, Clark. They don’t understand babyface psychology.”

 _”Hell yeah,”_ chorused both of them from the back seat, and followed it up with a self-congratulatory high-five.

“Anyway, I’m going to pull over at the next gas station to fill up and shoot off some caustic responses to Clark,” said Bruce. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, and Clark could tell they were just itching to get at a phone and get the best of him on Twitter. Scanning back over his recent tweets, he noticed one had a typo and grimaced. Bruce would never let that one slip by without comment.

He started to delete it, then stopped and left it, smiling to himself. Let Bruce have a little fun.

* * *

The Oklahoma City crowd was seething as Captain Cold and Heat Wave swaggered to the ring, ignoring the boos and thumbs-downs of the crowd. Snart and Rory preened and posed on the turnbuckles, basking in the derision, stoking it even more as Superman and ”Batman” waited impatiently in the ring.

This time Superman let Batman start the match, bowing in a way that was only a shade mocking. Batman met Captain Cold first, and they put on a series of tight, interlinked moves that had the crowd cheering Batman with delight. Heat Wave reached out to his partner to try and make the tag, but Batman yanked him away, whipping him to the far side of the ring, next to where Superman was. He pounced once more, and looked like he was about to get Captain Cold into a submission hold--

\--When Superman reached out as he went by and tagged himself in.

Batman glared as Superman climbed over the ropes with a grin. “Can’t let you have all the fun!” Superman called. He turned around--and walked right into Heat Wave’s fist, as Captain Cold had tagged him in while the two had their staredown. Superman staggered backwards, ricocheting off the ropes and into Heat Wave’s forearm for a vicious clothesline that flipped him in midair.

Disgusted, Batman jumped off the apron and looked like he was thinking about just walking out on his headstrong partner. Then he paused, irresolute, and looked out at the audience as if in appeal: _Is he worth it?_ The audience called out “No, no!” as he stepped away from the ring where Superman was currently getting suplexed and punched mercilessly. They cheered when he stepped back toward the ring. He shook his head and turned away again, and the crowd implored him: “Don’t go! Don’t go!”

In the ring, Heat Wave delivered his finishing move, the Scorcher Superkick, and Superman collapsed to the mat. Heat Wave grabbed him for the pin, the ref started the count--and Batman suddenly seemed to make up his mind, turning and jumping into the ring to break the pin and save the match as the crowd roared its approval. Superman struggled to his feet, weaving and disoriented, and an annoyed Heat Wave hit him with another superkick. This time, however, a slender figure jumped out of the audience just as he did and grabbed Batman’s feet, yanking him so his chin hit the apron with a resounding _thunk_. The Golden Glider, sister to Captain Cold, laughed cruelly as Snart pinned Superman, and she threw in a kick to Batman’s ribs for good measure as the bell rang.

* * *

“We almost won,” Superman said to Jimmy Olsen in the post-match interview. He was still holding his head and wincing, and next to him Batman was probing gingerly at his ribs. “We probably could have if Batman hadn’t almost decided to abandon me.”

“Follow sound strategy and I won’t have to consider it again,” Batman snapped and stalked off.

“Superman, do you think the two of you will ever be a good team?” Olsen asked earnestly.

Superman almost smiled. “Jimmy, I _know_ we’ll make a _great_ team.”

* * *

"Yoink!"

"When we're live, could you leave out the 'yoink,' Conner?" The director gave Superboy an exasperated look. 

"I'll try," said Conner, looking not very repentant. 

"All right, everyone, this is live, and we're rolling in three...two..."

Conner did manage to resist saying anything funny as the camera caught him walking past a door and a hand reached out and dragged him inside, although Clark could tell it was a greater struggle than the one he put up against his kidnappers. "I can't help it," he had said once to Clark after driving a director to distraction with his facial expressions, "Wrestling is too hilarious to be serious about."

"He's right," Bruce had said, much to his surprise, when Clark told him about it later. "A lot of the time, at least," he added with a shrug.

* * *

"Luthor!" On the Jumbotron, the door to Luthor's opulent office slammed open, and Superman charged in. "Superboy's been kidnapped by the Injustice League!"

"Don't you ever knock?" grumbled Luthor without looking up from his phone.

"I _said_ \--"

"And I heard you, Superman, but that's your problem, not mine. Maybe you didn't notice, but I have a promotion to run, and--"

The screen in the corner of his office flickered into life without prompting. "Well, well," said the Mysterious Hooded Figure, its voice a distorted rasp. "If it isn't Superman and Lex Luthor, working together. As it so happens, I have something of value to you both." The figure stepped aside to reveal Superboy, tied to a chair, a gag in his mouth. (Clark suspected the gag might have become necessary to keep him from cracking jokes). "Now, this Kryptonian clone is clearly important to Superman. But you, Luthor, may be asking yourself why you should care about one replaceable employee."

Luthor shrugged, and the figure went on:

"This child, Luthor, is much more than a random wrestler to you. In fact, he is--"

* * *

_"My son?!"_

The locker room erupted in laughter as Dick Grayson imitated the way Luthor's voice had spiralled into a squeak at the revelation from the screen.

"Oh my God," said Roy, wiping his eyes. "Oh, that was gold. Pure gold."

"He actually has great comedic timing," said Dick. "I can see where his son gets it from," he added with a wink at Conner, which set everyone off again.

"And the double-take he did at Superman!" Conner added. "I thought he was going to give himself whiplash. Oh God, this is the best angle ever."

"You're just saying that because you get to be the damsel in distress," said Tim, nudging him.

"Doesn't hurt," Conner agreed with a grin, "Though it sucks I can't be in any matches until you guys rescue me."

"Well, we've got our best people on the case," said Superman. "It shouldn't be more than a few weeks."

Conner groaned, but the sound was cut off as the locker room door opened and Lex Luthor came into the room. "Hi Dad!" he started to call out, but the call died on his lips as a familiar figure followed Luthor into the room.

Jean-Paul Valley nodded stiffly to everyone. "Hello," he said. "It's been a while."

Eyes turned quickly from Valley to Dick Grayson, still standing in the middle of the room with the heavyweight championship belt--the one Azrael had been stripped of before him--around his waist.

"Gentlemen," said Luthor briskly, not acknowledging the sudden tension in the room, "I'm pleased to report Valley will be back and wrestling with us starting with the next show. He's had some time to think about things, and he says he's ready to work for the DCW again. I for one have complete and total faith in him." He clapped Valley on the back. "If any of you have a problem with him, please speak up now."

This time people pointedly did _not_ look at Dick, although the sharp words Valley had said about the Graysons seemed to hang in the air. Clark saw Dick's throat move as he swallowed, but he said nothing. After a moment, the champion turned away and started to go through his gym bag.

"Glad to hear it," said Luthor. "As you were."

He turned and left the locker room. Jean-Paul cast an opaque glance around before leaving as well. 

"Maybe we were wrong about him having a sense of humor," Conner said glumly into the sudden silence.


	60. World's Finest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman and Batman search for a missing Superboy--but will they lose their chance at the tag team titles because of it?

_ At the best live shows, you enter a euphoria of utter absurdity, and to analyze and interpret risks spoiling the pleasures of watching vivacious young men momentarily escaping civilization’s discontents (not to mention their own). --Thomas Hackett  _

“He’s unstable,” said Dick Grayson, his voice low and dangerous.

Lex Luthor looked up from behind his desk--his real desk, not the set they used for “Lex Luthor’s” promos. “Can the champion not speak for himself?” he asked, his voice mild as he looked at Clark and Bruce on either side of Dick.

“Are you sure Jean-Paul is in a...a good enough place to wrestle again?” said Clark before Dick could respond. “He was really struggling there, at the end.”

“Unless he’s changed, he’s not good for the locker room,” Bruce said. “He was a polarizing champion.”

“And what will he ever be able to do to convince you he’s changed?” Luthor said. “Mr. Grayson, be honest--you have personal issues with him. You resent that he was chosen to be the Dark Knight instead of you, and you hold it against him that he was champion without, as you think, earning the title.”

“That’s not it at all,” said Dick. “He was bad for morale, he was a terrible leader. He took unnecessary risks in the ring, risked hurting the people he was working with.” He grimaced for a moment, then went on. “The only personal grudge I have with him is what he said about my parents.”

“Personal grudges have no place in--”

 _”He blamed my parents for their own deaths!”_ Dick snapped. “He said they died for nothing, for a glitzy, empty show. That’s not the kind of thing I can just forgive and forget.”

“And you in turn blamed his father for driving his brothers to early graves,” Lex said. “You were very close to your parents,” he observed after the room was silent for a moment. “You had a...warm and supportive relationship with them. Not everyone does.” Something glimmered behind his acid-green eyes and was gone. “Jean-Paul struggles with demons you can’t understand.”

“As long as he doesn’t cause problems in the locker room, I’m sure Dick will have no problems with him,” Clark said. “Right, Dick?”

“Of course not,” said Dick, but his eyes were troubled.

* * *

“It’s a clue!” Batman announced backstage, holding up a strand of black hair, and Superman rolled his eyes for the camera to catch. “Now I just need to figure out where this footprint next to it came from…”

“Guys,” said Jimmy, stepping into the camera and holding out a microphone.

Superman jumped and snapped “Where did you come from?” Batman, lost in thought, didn’t even seem to notice. 

“Over there,” Jimmy said vaguely. “Anyway--Superman, Batman--”

“--Don’t call me that,” muttered the Dark Knight. 

“If you aren’t there when the bell rings tonight against Heat Wave and Captain Cold, you’ll forfeit the match _and_ your chance at the titles. Aren’t you worried that your attempt to find this missing wrestler will cost you the match?”

“Mr. Olsen,” said Batman, and his voice was deeply ominous, “Kon-El is Kal’s--Superman’s-- _son._ ”

“Well, clone, really,” said Superman, with the air of a person being scrupulously honest. “Half-clone.”

Batman shot him a look and went on, “ _Practically his son,_ and he’s gone missing. I’m not putting the match above the life of a family member.”

For a startled beat, Superman just blinked at Batman. Then he burst into a dazzling smile. “Thank you, Dark Knight,” he said.

The Caped Crusader looked at him for a moment. “I suppose you can call me Batman if you want,” he said grudgingly. Then his eyebrows went up as a thought struck him. “And I believe I know where they’re holding Superboy,” he said. “Follow me!”

Together they charged out of the frame, leaving Jimmy behind to say “Good luck getting back in time for the match…”

* * *

Superboy spit out his gag as Superman and Batman--accompanied by a concerned Robin--undid it. “I know who did it!” he said. “I know who had me kidnapped!”

“You saw them?” cried Superman.

“Who was it?” demanded Batman.

“Tell us!” chimed in Robin as he untied Kon’s arms.

“It was…” Superboy paused dramatically. “The Mysterious Figure!”

All three of his rescuers sagged. “Yes, Superboy. We already knew that. But who _is_ the Mysterious Figure?” said Batman with commendable patience.

“Oh. I don’t know,” said Superboy.

“No time for this!” cried Robin. “You two might still be able to make it back to the ring in time for the match! Run!”

The two wrestlers bolted out of the screen again, leaving behind a bewildered Kon and exasperated Tim.

* * *

Heat Wave and Captain Cold were beaming in the center of the ring, chatting with the referee, who was looking at his watch. The announcers were explaining that since the challengers weren’t there, soon they’d start the match and give them a ten-count to show up before losing by countout.. The audience was uneasy, seething nervously. At one level they knew that the faces would make it, but at another--the one that really mattered--they weren’t sure. They had seen the heroes rescue Superboy, but where were they now?

“Ring the bell and start the ten count!” yelled Heat Wave, and the referee shrugged and called for the bell to be rung, then started the count. The crowd noise lifted as the count went upward toward ten, surged, become nearly unbearable--

And then the first notes of Superman’s theme song rang out, underpinned with the gloomy base of Batman’s theme.

The crowd came to their feet simultaneously as Superman and Batman charged into the arena, a long rippling wave of humanity craning their necks to see them.

Superman jumped into the ring an instant before the ref held up both hands for the ten count. 

“Damn it!” yelled Captain Cold, literally stomping a foot in frustration. “We were promised--”

What he was promised never became clear, because the bell rang and a furious Superman immediately launched himself at Captain Cold, punching him square in the face. The crowd shrieked approval, and from the turnbuckle Batman yelled support, and the match was on.

Clark could tell right away that it was going to be a good match. For the first time, Superman and Batman were allowed to be truly working together, and it was as if a circuit had finally been completed between them. It felt _so good_ to be tagging Bruce in without hesitation, to be able to urge him on when he was in the ring. When the Dark Knight was caught in a painful-looking chinlock, Superman turned to the crowd and threw his hands in the air, exhorting the crowd to cheer for him. And oh, they did. It was as if they had been yearning for Batman and Superman to get along as much as Bruce and Clark had, and the roar was almost deafening.

But in the end, even teamwork was not enough. Superman stumbled in a key moment, weary from their rush to the ring, and Captain Cold exploited it to lay him out in the middle of the ring. The crowd groaned as the heel champions retained the titles, but fell silent as Superman staggered to his feet, gesturing for a mic.

“You’ve won today!” he called after the retreating, gloating champions, and they turned around at the top of the ramp to look at him. “But you could only win by threatening innocent people, you could only win through lying and cheating. I don’t think you understand--Batman and I will never rest until we’ve taken those titles away from you, because _you don’t deserve them._ ”

Captain Cold waited for the swell of cheers to subside before yelling out contemptuously, “Oh, and you think you do?”

“I _know_ we do!” shot back Superman without hesitation. “And I know we do because we’re a _team_ now--a team that values family and friendship over fame and fortune, that values human life above titles and championships. Together, we’re unstoppable--the finest in the world!”

“The world’s finest,” said Batman from next to him. He put an arm around Superman’s shoulders. “We’re the World’s Finest.”

And from that day forward, they were.

* * *

Jean-Paul caused no problems in the locker room. He even pulled many wrestlers aside and quietly apologized for the times he worked stiff with them or pushed them too hard, and locker-room resentment of him gradually died down into grudging acceptance. Without the pressure of the championship title, driving him, he reverted to the quiet engineering student Clark remembered, the snarling obsession banished--for now, at least. 

But he never apologized to Dick Grayson.

Batman and Superman continued to chase after the tag team titles, always falling just a touch short through duplicity and treachery on the part of the champions. Every time they failed, the audience got more involved, more eager to see them win. The message boards stopped talking about how the two of them were wasted in the tag team division and soon enough were talking about a tag team “renaissance.” Dick Grayson stayed an incredibly popular heavyweight champion. The Mysterious Hooded Figure continued to organize the heels, terrorize the faces, and cackle with glee behind its voice-synthesizer. Everything seemed to be going well in the DCW.

* * *

“I had dinner with Garth and Wally last night,” Dick said, frowning down at his hamburger. “Did you know Max Lord is starting up a promotion in California?”

Clark put down his drink. “I didn’t,” he said.

Bruce shrugged. “I’d heard rumors.”

“San Francisco based,” said Dick. “He’s approached some of the younger wrestlers here.”

“But DCW is the best,” said Conner. “Why would they leave?”

Tim snorted. “DCW is the best for a certain type. If you’re not tall and rippling with muscle, you’re pretty much doomed to the midcard--it’s true,” he said somewhat defensively toward Clark and Bruce.

Clark grimaced and didn’t deny it.

“But Dick’s heavyweight champion, and he’s hardly--hey,” Conner said, dodging a thrown napkin from the champion’s direction. “But if he’s made it--”

“I’m unusual,” said Dick. “Lex was under a lot of pressure from the fans to make me champion, especially after his hand-picked Azrael didn’t work out. Plus--” He broke off and looked uncomfortable. “He’s always kind of looked out for me since my parents died working for him.”

“You deserve that title,” Bruce said quietly.

“I know I do,” said Dick, “I’m just saying that I might have only gotten a shot at it because of external pressures, though. Lex isn’t likely to promote another lighter guy. There’s a glass ceiling for kids like Garth and Wally, and they can feel it. I can’t really blame them for wanting to leave for a place that values them more. And this new promotion, the Titans--it sounds like it’s going to be a lot more focused on storytelling and on the high-fliers, a more lucha style, you know? Hell, it sounds like a place I could really--” He broke off and took a bite of his burger instead of continuing.

“So who’s Lord approached?” Bruce said.

“At the DCW--Wally, Garth, Roy, Donna, Kory. He’s also scouting some of our friends from Sora. Garfield, Raven, Terra.”

Bruce whistled low between his teeth. “That’s an impressive roster. And would leave a big gap in the DCW midcard. I hope Lord’s learned to manage his money better than in his JLI days--I’d hate to see your friends going without paychecks, no matter how brilliant a writer and booker he is.”

“I’m sure they’re all aware of his reputation. But there are more important things than money, sometimes,” said Dick, and Bruce raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“Has he approached you?” Tim said, looking at Dick.

“No,” said Dick. He opened his mouth, closed it again. “No,” he repeated.

* * *

“--of course Dick wouldn’t lie,” said Bruce later, as they lay together on their Galveston hotel bed, sweating under a rattling air conditioner. “But you’ll notice that doesn’t rule out Lord asking him by proxy, sending out feelers through Garth or Wally.”

Clark frowned. “Dick’s at the top of the DCW right now,” he said. “He wouldn’t leave.”

“Dummy,” said Bruce affectionately. “Not everyone is motivated by fame and fortune, you know that perfectly well. Dick’s an innovator, a leader. He could shine with the Titans in a way he can’t here.” He looked thoughtful. “And the fact that Lex feels protective of him eats at him more than I’d realized. I think at some level he feels Lex gave him the title out of pity.”

Clark snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed this,” Bruce said, “But people aren’t always rational.”

“Except for you, of course,” Clark said.

“Except for me,” Bruce said, utterly deadpan. “For example, I have only the most rational of reasons for believing that of all the great things we’ve done and have yet to do in our careers, we’re going to be remembered most for this tag team title run.”

“Oh?” Clark wrapped a leg around him and dragged him close. “And what are your entirely rational reasons for this belief?”

“That together we are indeed the finest in the world,” Bruce said with a smile.

“The World’s Finest,” Clark agreed.


	61. Me All Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman and Batman are making a run at the tag titles--but the Mysterious Hooded Figure has a stipulation to add.

_ Brian Pillman came up to me and said, “Hey, man, you’re a babyface now.” _  
_I’d say, “No, I’m not.”_  
_He grinned and said, “Yeah, you are a babyface,” with a smart-ass delivery, as only Brian could deliver. He said, “Steve’s a babyface! Steve’s a babyface!”_  
_I said, “Screw you. No, I’m not, I’m a damn heel.” I was starting to get hot!_  
_And he said, “Listen to the fans, you are a freaking babyface. A damn white-meat babyface!” --Steve Austin_

“You saved my son.” The Jumbotron showed Lex Luthor in his office addressing Superman and Batman. He had one arm around Superboy, who looked embarrassed and pleased. “Is there any way I can ever repay the two of you?”

Batman glanced at Superman, then back at Lex. “We’d like another shot at the tag team titles.”

“You’re one of the best teams I’ve got,” said Luthor, “I’d be giving you another shot soon anyway. Shall I throw in a pay raise? A nice vacation?”

“All we want right now is the tag titles. We’d have them right now if the Mysterious Hooded Figure hadn’t interfered,” said Superman.

“Of course,” said Lex. “Curse that sinister figure! If you had any idea the hell I’ve been going through, the suffering I’ve endured, the sleepless nights…” He passed a hand over his eyes and Conner patted him on the back, awkward but earnest. “If only we knew who he was!” He blinked tears from his eyes and managed a smile at Superman and Batman. “I’m just so glad I have you two to help. I owe you the world.”

The three wrestlers left Lex’s room and went out into the hall, where they paused thoughtfully for the cameras. “I think he’s really changed since realizing he has a son,” Superman said.

“I’ve got the two best dads in the world,” Superboy beamed.

“I wonder,” said Batman.

* * *

Wally West finished dumping the last of his things into his gym bag. “Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his head, “I guess this is goodbye.”

Everyone in the locker room shook his hand except for Dick, who threw his arms around him. “Promise you’ll text when you get to San Francisco.”

“What are you, my mom?” Wally complained, but he was smiling as he rested his head on Dick’s shoulder. “Diana made Donna promise to text the minute our plane lands.”

“I’m not that crazy. You can wait until you’re in baggage claim.” Dick’s laugh got somewhat choked at the end. “Seriously, man, take care of yourself. We’ll miss you here.”

“Well,” said Wally, “If you miss us too much, you know where we are.” He shot Roy a meaningful look as he clapped Dick on the back.

* * *

"And thanks to these two heroes, my son was rescued safe and sound." Lex Luthor stood in the middle of the ring, throwing his arms wide as he thanked Superman and Batman, who stood in the ring looking bashful and stoic (respectively). "As a result, I believe they deserve another chance at the tag team championships! What do you think, DCW fans?"

The arena-rattling applause left no doubt what the fans felt.

"What the hell!" The cheers died off into grumbling as Captain Cold and Heat Wave appeared at the top of the ramp. Captain Cold pointed an accusing finger at Lex and went on: "That ain't fair, Luthor, and you know it! They lost to us fair and square and they don't deserve another shot!"

Luthor frowned. "Much as I hate to admit it, you have a point, Cold." He paced back and forth across the ring, pondering, and then his eyebrows went up as an idea hit him. "How about this?" he said, swiveling to address the four wrestlers. "The World's Finest gets a title shot--but only," he went on quickly as the crowd started to rejoice, "If they run a gauntlet of matches next week, defeating three other teams in one night for the right to face you." He threw out his arms again. "What do you think?"

The audience was very in favor of seeing three matches with the World's Finest in one night and let him know it.

Luthor held out the mic to Superman and Batman. Batman shrugged, and Superman said "We'll beat anyone and everyone for the chance to prove to those bullies that they have to answer to someone for all they've done."

They all looked at Captain Cold and Heat Wave, who looked at each other. Then they nodded slowly. "I don't think we've got much to worry about, Leonard," said Heat Wave. "They'll never make it through to face us."

"Very well, then," said Luthor. The camera got a closeup of us his face just as his eyes narrowed. "And by the way...if I ever find out that the two of you are in cahoots with that Mysterious Figure who kidnapped Superboy, I'll--"

As if on cue, electronically-distorted cold laughter filled the arena, and the Jumbotron flickered to reveal the Mysterious Figure itself, its distinctive deep hood hiding its face. "You'll do what, Luthor? You'll do nothing. In fact, if you value the safety of your employees--and your son--if the World's Finest do survive their gauntlet, I'll be allowed to add a stipulation of my choosing to that title match."

Luthor's jaw was set. "Very well, you monster," he said. "You know I'll do anything to keep my son safe." The crowd murmured. " _But_ in addition, I reserve the right to add my own stipulation," he added with a smirk.

The Mysterious Figure seemed to consider this for a moment. Then it slowly inclined its head, and the screen went blank.

"Don't you worry," Luthor said, clapping Superman and Batman on the shoulders. "I’ll make my stipulation that he’s required to unmask if you win the championship match.”

“You will?” Superman beamed at Luthor. “That’s very sporting of you, Mr. Luthor.”

Luthor smiled back at him. “All you have to do is beat that gauntlet, and everyone will know who the bastard is that’s been running the Injustice League."

"Oh, we will," said Superman. "And--thank you."

"Hrm," said Batman.

* * *

“Easier done than said,” grinned Superman after the first match, cracking his knuckles backstage as the cameras rolled. “I knew Mad Hatter and the Penguin were no match for us. I’m just worried about Luthor.”

Batman looked up from whatever reverie he was in. “Why?”

“That Mysterious Figure seems to really have him worried,” Superman said. “We’ll all sleep better at night when we finally unmask him and reveal his identity to the world.”

“We still have to finish this gauntlet, and then win the actual championship match,” noted Batman.

“No problem at all,” said Superman with a grin.

* * *

“Okay,” said Superman backstage as the cameras caught him wiping sweat from his brow, “That was harder. Flash and Green Lantern work really well together--I’m glad they’re usually on our side instead of against us.”

“Are you guys going to be okay in your last match?” Superboy said, a worried look on his face. “Why’d Luthor pick such hard opponents for it? Joker and Mongul aren’t going to make it easy for you.”

“He wants to make sure he isn’t playing favorites, I’m sure,” said Superman. “Don’t worry, Kon. We’ll be fine.” 

He patted Superboy on the back and the former Metropolis Kid beamed in delight. “You guys are the best,” he said, and exited stage left.

“Are you ready?” Superman asked Batman. “All we have to do is win this last one, and Luthor will help us spring our trap. Then if we beat Captain Cold and Heat Wave next week, we’ll finally find out who the Mysterious Figure is.”

Batman nodded. “We’ll also be tag team champions,” he said.

“That’s right!” Superman looked surprised. “Gosh, I’d almost forgotten about that. I’ve been too focused on stopping the Figure’s reign of terror. I’m sorry.”

Batman looked at Superman and his mouth softened into something that was almost a smile. “No apology necessary, Kal.” He held out his fist, and Superman bumped his own against it. “Let’s mete out some justice.”

* * *

As Superboy had feared, the match against Joker and Mongul was a hard one. By the time Superman delivered his signature punch to the Joker’s narrow jaw and left him reeling, both he and Batman were winded and soaked with sweat, breathing heavily. 

Clark was actually truly tired--three matches in a night was no mean feat even if the first two were easy--but he was happy to play it up even more for the crowd, staggering over to tag Batman as Joker lay in front of the turnbuckle.

“Ready?” Bruce murmured. 

“I’ve waited my whole life for this,” Clark whispered back. And then he turned back to the Joker.

All great tag teams have some kind of combo finishing move, delivered in the seconds after a tag in which both members of the team were allowed to be in the ring at the same time. The World’s Finest, despite finally clicking as a team, hadn’t produced a combo finisher yet, and the message boards and Reddit had been buzzing about what they might eventually come up with. Bruce and Clark had made them wait, and now at last they were ready.

As Mongul bellowed futilely and the audience craned their heads, Superman scooped up the Joker and slung him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, then rolled forward toward the turnbuckle and slammed him onto the mat. As he continued the roll forward, Batman leaped over him from the turnbuckle into a 450 splash, spinning in the air to land across Joker’s body. He threw himself aside and Superman jumped from his roll onto the turnbuckle and into a beautiful moonsault onto Joker. It was an incredibly complex move, requiring both athleticism and perfect timing, and both of them had spent a lot of time gloating over it, looking forward to the crowd’s reaction.

But all of Clark’s imaginings didn’t match up to the shrieking roar that went up as the moonsault finished, the jubilant sound of a crowd that knows it’s seen history made. Memphis had just become the first city to witness the combo that would soon be known as “Bright Lights, Dark Nights,” and it was giddy with joy. 

Superman pinned Joker, and Clark could feel Napier giggling gently underneath him. “Okay,” Napier whispered as the ref counted, “That’s crazy. I like it.”

The bell rang and they had successfully run the gauntlet and won the right to another title shot--and to Luthor’s stipulation.

Lex Luthor came down to the ring with Superboy at his side, grinning at Superman and Batman, thumping them on the back. “Well, Mysterious Figure!” he called out. “I think you’ve probably figured out my stipulation by now--if my two champions win the tag team titles next week, you have to reveal your true identity to the world! And if you’re one of my employees,” he crowed, “I will _fire_ you and you will _never_ bother me and my beloved family again.” He threw an arm around Superboy, who blushed bright red. 

There was a long, tense silence. Superman and Batman looked at each other uneasily; the crowd murmured. Then the Jumbotron came to life, filling with the image of a figure in a purple robe, his face hidden in the shadows of its deep hood.

“So,” said the Mysterious Figure, its voice as always deep and distorted. “I am to unmask if they win? Well, it is traditional to have a mask versus career match, is it not?” As Luthor blustered something about being too important to fire, the figure chuckled ominously. “Don’t worry. The careers I am interested in ending are not yours, little Luthor, but those of _Superman and Batman_!” He pointed a dramatic draped hand out at the ring as the audience gasped. “My stipulation is that, if they lose next week, they are _terminated_ from the DCW.” The figure crossed its arm and looked out at them. “I await your answer.”

The screen went dark.

“Why, that _bastard,_ ” snarled Lex. “If he thinks he can run my business--he’s in this building! Security! Security!” He leaped from the ring, ran up the ramp and disappeared, leaving Superman, Batman, and Superboy behind.

The three of them shrugged at each other and had an animated conversation about whether they should accept the stipulations. “I don’t see how we can refuse,” said Superman. “It’s our only real opportunity to unmask this monster and find out who’s behind these attacks.”

“But if you lose!” cried Superboy. “You’ll both be fired!”

“It’s a chance we’ve got to take,” said Superman. “Who knows when we’ll get another opportunity! Don’t you agree, Batman?”

Below the cowl, Batman’s lips were pursed and his jaw clenched, but after a moment he nodded, and the crowd cheered their decision.

“All right then!” cried Superman, addressing the black screen. “We accept your stipulation! If we win the titles next week, you will unmask and we’ll all see your true face. But if we lose…” He swallowed hard and went on, “If we lose, Batman and I will be fired from the DCW.”

The screen came to life and the Mysterious Hooded Figure filled it once more. A low chortle filled the arena, and the crowd lapsed into uneasy murmurs. “Very well,” said the leader of the Injustice League. “But you know, now that we have these stipulations in place, I don’t feel the need to hide my identity anymore. Now that I finally have you where I want you, _World’s Finest._ ” The contempt was clear in the filtered voice, as the figure lifted his hands and grasped the edges of his hood, throwing it back to reveal--

Lex Luthor, his eyes gleaming, laughing maniacally.

The audience shrieked in shock and the heroes in the ring staggered backwards. “Luthor!” cried Superman.

“It was me, Superman!” Luthor exulted. “It was me all along!” 

There were aghast double-takes from Superman and Superboy, while Batman crossed his arms and looked annoyed.

“But--but--” Superboy stammered and sputtered for a while before he could go on, “Are you saying you had me-- _your own son_ \--kidnapped?”

“ _Son_?” Luthor’s lip curled. “You’re nothing but an experiment, a tool. And I used you to get I wanted, which was to manipulate these two fools into signing their own death warrant!” He laughed again as the audience brayed for his blood and Superman put his arm around a pale Superboy. “It’s been hard _smiling_ and _chumming it up_ with you simpletons, but it’s all been worth it. Oh, victory is sweet! I suckered you all, I made you all look like fools! I had you dancing to my tune, feeling sorry for me, so eager to help. I taught you a lesson--Superman, Batman, all of you idiots in the audience--no one controls the DCW but Luthor! Next week at last I’ll be rid of you meddling do-gooders and the Injustice League will be free to help me rule this promotion with an iron fist!” He brandished said fist at the camera; if he had a mustache he would have twirled it. 

“But we haven’t lost yet,” Batman said, and his calm voice cut through the pandemonium in the arena. “And we won’t lose. Because we’re not abandoning the DCW to a monster like you, Luthor.” He stepped forward and put his shoulder against Superman’s glaring up at the gigantic face of Luthor looming over them. “At the end of next week, I swear to you--we’ll be tag team champions, and your Injustice League will be scurrying for shelter. You’ll see.”

* * *

Backstage after the show, Luthor and Conner were laughing so hard they had to lean on each other. “Did you hear the announcers when you pulled the hood back?” Conner choked. “I thought Gorilla was going to eat his mic, he was so mad. _‘That misbegotten dog!’_ ” he quoted. “It was perfect.”

“One of my better lines,” Gorilla said as he wandered by, saluting them with a cup of coffee.

“Oh, your face,” Luthor said to Conner, wiping tears from his eyes. “ _‘Your own son!’_ ”

“Daddy, no!” gasped Conner, and collapsed onto a couch.

“I was more impressed with that closing combo of yours,” Leonard Snart said in an undertone to Clark. “Hate to drop the titles, but we sure couldn’t lose them to a prettier move.”

Clark was about to thank him when the door banged open and Dick Grayson stormed in. “They’re gone,” he announced angrily. “Wally and Donna--they’re _gone._ ”

A puzzled silence met his words. “They’ve been gone for days, Dick,” said Clark.

“I don’t mean--I mean they’ve been _erased,_ ” Dick snarled. “From the DCW web pages, from all their promotional material. Videos with them have been pulled from Youtube. Roy’s been told he’s not to mention Wally in his promos anymore. You’re _erasing them,_ ” he said, pointing at Luthor.

Luthor’s laughter was gone as if it had been erased as well; he straightened up and gave Dick a cold look. “You can hardly expect me to keep giving free publicity to people who don’t work for me,” he said.

“But they have a history here, and you can’t just wipe it out,” Dick said.

Luthor raised an eyebrow. “Can’t I? We _created_ that history, and we can make it whatever we want it to be.”

Dick stared at him. “It’s not fair.”

“You should know by now--life isn’t fair, kid,” Luthor said, and with that he turned and left the room.

A long silence reigned once he was gone. Clark saw Dick lock eyes with Starfire, Garth, and Roy, saw his jaw tighten as he nodded at them. “It’s like he said--no one controls the DCW but Luthor,” he muttered, and left as well.

“I don’t get it,” said Conner mournfully to Clark. “So Luthor is basically a bad person pretending to be a good person, who’s playing a bad man pretending to be a good man? That’s way too complex for me.”

“He’s a _person,”_ Bruce said. “And that means he’s a mixed-up mess of good and bad, like all of us, no matter what roles we play in the ring.”

“Except for Clark,” Conner said. “Clark’s a babyface wherever he is.”

“Hey,” Clark said, unsure whether he should feel complimented or insulted. Bruce was hiding a smile behind his hand.

“It’s okay,” said Conner, “We love you anyway.”

“Anyone who can hit such a pretty moonsault is okay in my book,” said Leonard Snart, “even if you are a goddamn babyface.” He grinned at Clark. “We hitting the ring to practice tomorrow? I’d hate to lose the titles to a botched move.”

“Clark doesn’t botch,” Bruce bristled, and Snart and Rory cracked up and high-fived each other, giving Clark the distinct impression they’d predicted that response.

(But they never did botch Bright Lights, Dark Nights, not in all the hundreds of times they did it. Not once.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see what the “Bright Lights, Dark Nights” move looks like, I shamelessly stole it from the Young Bucks’ finishing combo, “More Bang for Your Buck,” maybe the prettiest finishing combo in the business. You can see a version of it [here.](https://youtu.be/VMYCVZ1QK8s)


	62. You Deserve It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman and Batman face Captain Cold and Heat Wave for the tag team titles.

_ Some fights, among the most successful kind, are crowned by a final charivari, a sort of unrestrained fantasia where the rules, the laws of the genre, the referee's censuring and the limits of the ring are abolished, swept away by a triumphant disorder which overflows into the hall and carries off pell-mell wrestlers, seconds, referee and spectators. --Roland Barthes _

“Explain yourselves.”

Lex Luthor’s voice was icy-cold, and Clark blinked at him across the desk. “What?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Kent!” Luthor gestured sharply at his phone on the desk. “I hate the dirt sheets, but that doesn’t mean I don’t _read_ them.” 

Bruce cleared his throat. “Do you mean that rumor that we’re going to lose the title match, be ‘fired,’ and then use that as an excuse to jump ship to go work for Max Lord’s Titans promotion?” He sounded both baffled and annoyed. “You know perfectly well that’s not true, Lex--you’re the one who’s _booked us to win,_ for God’s sake.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t start the rumor,” snapped Lex. “I know you and Lord go way back, I know a lot of Grayson’s friends are working there now, and I don’t like the idea that the DCW might be used to give PR to another promotion.”

Clark managed not to roll his eyes, but it was a challenge. “Lex, we’re in a career-threatening match, it isn’t a huge leap to make some guesses about what we’ll do if we lose. The dirt sheets are just playing the game.”

“This isn’t some _game_ , Kent. This is _business._ And if I find out you, or Grayson, or _anyone_ has been trying to make a tool of the DCW…” He let the sentence hang in the air unfinished, and gestured toward the door. The conversation was clearly at an end.

“He’s really rattled by the Titans, isn’t he?” Clark asked once the office was safely far behind them. 

“They’ve chewed a chunk out of his midcard,” Bruce said. “First Donna and Wally, now Garth and Roy…”

“The midcard he never used properly anyway,” Clark pointed out. “They deserve a chance to get out from under the shadows of the older wrestlers if they want.”

“Of course they do,” Bruce said a bit sharply. “It’s just understandable that, from Lex’s point of view, the Titans are a threat.”

Clark studied his face for a moment. “You’re still worried about Dick, aren’t you? You’re afraid he’ll leave.”

Bruce frowned. “He’s been talking about it a lot. If I thought it would be good for his career, I’d encourage it. But not now. Not this way.”

“You’re not spreading those rumors about us maybe leaving.”

“Of course not.”

Clark ignored Bruce’s indignation. “I believed you before, but now I _know_ \--you don’t want to boost Lord’s promotion because you’re afraid Dick will jump ship and hurt his career.”

Bruce sighed. “I understand wanting to be where the people you care about are, believe me. But escaping a stagnant midcard is one thing. Leaving when you’re at the very top--that’s a lot more serious.” He shook his head as if dismissing the topic. “Let’s focus on our own careers for a bit,” he said. “Are you ready to become half of the tag team champions?”

Clark laughed. “Oh boy, am I,” he said. 

“Your first championship,” said Bruce. “You should have had a belt around your waist long before now, you know.”

Clark shrugged, embarrassed as he always was when the topic came up. “I didn’t really want to hold a title as the Kryptonian anyway,” he said. “I would have hated playing a heel champion. And then you were hurt and out and I didn’t want…I didn’t really want to wrestle at all. Now’s the right time. Really. I’m ready now.”

“I know you are. But in another way, you aren’t. No one ever is. It’s a big deal, winning a title,” said Bruce. “It’s...amazing.”

Clark chuckled. “You’ve been the heavyweight champion,” he said. “The tag belts can’t really compare with that.”

“Ah,” said Bruce, “But this time I’ll be the champion _with you._ ” He rumpled Clark’s hair in a gesture that could have been friendly fun, but his fingers lingered on Clark’s nape a fraction longer than “friendly.” “And that makes all the difference.”

* * *

“It’s just the two of you against the whole Injustice League,” sneered Captain Cold, adjusting the belt on his shoulder as he faced off against Superman and Batman backstage. “And now that you know who our leader is, I’m surprised you’re sticking around long enough to even lose. The deck’s stacked against you, suckers. You should just admit defeat and scurry off right now, because you’re _going_ to lose your jobs.”

“Go on,” said Heat Wave as Snart made shooing gestures. “Move along, go west young men and all that.”

There was a long silence as Batman and Superman looked at the champions, who started to look uncomfortable. Finally, Batman reached out and slapped the belt on Captain Cold’s shoulder. Snart flinched, then looked annoyed at himself.

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Batman. “And we’re gunning for you.”

“I’m surprised you said that,” said Clark to Mick Rory later, as the four of them ran over the match one last time in the gym. He picked Mick up and dropped him across his knee stomach-first. 

“Said what?” said Mick as he bounced up from taking Clark’s gutbuster, a move that would render Heat Wave almost unconscious during the match.

“That thing about going west. You’re deliberately tweaking the smarks about those rumors about us bailing for Lord’s promotion.”

“So what if I am?” Mick grinned in between a couple of clotheslines. “Lex may be my boss, but he’s only my dark lord and master in kayfabe. Plus it’s fun to get the assholes on the Internet riled up about silly bullshit.”

“I don’t know why Lex is so upset about the Titans,” said Clark, ducking under the last clothesline and dropping a running bulldog on Mick, slamming him into the mat. Mick rolled over onto his back and did a quick kip-up as Clark went on: “They look like a fun little promotion, but they’re staying put in California, not touring. They’re unlikely to be any kind of threat to the DCW.”

“That bulldog was sloppy,” said Bruce from the apron. “I suggest you focus more on your moves and less on the gossip.”

Clark rolled his eyes and gestured at Bruce: _Bring it on._ Bruce vaulted into the ring and came at Clark, his smile immediately vanishing into an intent scowl. As he lunged forward, Clark stepped out of the way and dropped Bruce into a textbook-pretty running bulldog. Bruce came up smiling and delivered a dropkick at Clark, both his feet kissing Clark’s chest with the gentlest of shoves. 

Freed from the need to sell any impact, the two of them went around the ring for ten minutes, tossing and punching and dancing around each other, light-footed and cat-agile, weaving kicks and blows into a tapestry of false combat. Bruce was smiling-- _It’s been a long time since we’ve fought each other in the ring at any length,_ Clark realized. _We’ve been on the same team recently, not facing each other._

 _I miss it,_ he realized next, _The flawless trust that makes it possible to create a perfect illusion, the wordless understanding, the creation of a story together._

Bruce delivered a last standing enzuigiri kick, then rolled back to the turnbuckle and rested against it, calling a halt with his body language. His hair was damp with sweat, his face flushed and eyes shining. 

“I miss it too,” he said as if Clark had said it out loud. “But tagging together’s fun in a totally different way.”

“It should be an Olympic sport,” said Leonard Snart, tossing them bottles of water. “If they’ve got synchronized swimming, why not synchronized fighting, huh?”

“Eh, these two bastards would always win the gold anyway,” said Mick, disgusted.

* * *

“Nervous?” Clark said as Bruce pulled the cowl up over his head.

“As all hell,” Bruce laughed. “Did you expect me to be all macho and lie?”

“Let’s give them a show,” Clark said, touching his fist to Bruce’s.

“Just don’t make us look like chumps,” Leonard Snart said as their music hit and they rounded the corner to walk out in front of the crowd.

The sound hit Clark like a bludgeon, a guttural roar of anticipation that drowned out their entrance music entirely. He stopped cold, feeling the sound pushing at him in waves, a hungry tide. He felt Bruce put an arm around him, and annoyance glinted through him--did he really look so shaky?--before he turned his head and realized that it was Bruce who was pale under the cowl, a gleam of cold sweat glinting in the hollow of his collarbones.

Clark slung an arm around his back and together they walked down the ramp and into the ring.

Once they were there, silence fell for a moment, and then Luthor’s mocking laughter filled the arena. The Jumbotron flickered into life, revealing Luthor wearing his purple robes with the hood pulled back (“I rather like it, actually,” he had said backstage). “Hello, ‘World’s Finest,’” he said, making ironic air quotes. “You know, I admire your tenacity, actually coming out to the ring to face my champions rather than running away with your tails tucked between your legs. You’ll go down swinging, good for you!” He chuckled. “So I thought I’d make this even more interesting. Instead of your basic tag match, I thought I’d make this a tornado tag match. That means--”

“--We know what it means, Luthor,” said Superman. “No tags, both team members can be in the ring at the same time, a pin on either one counts as a victory. You think that scares us? Instead of one on one, it’s two on two--and that’s still no problem for us.”

Luthor smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Then good luck keeping your jobs,” he said, and his image was replaced by the entrance display for Cold and Heat as they came around the corner, holding aloft their bronze belts.

Superman and Batman glared at them as they swaggered toward the ring, grinning as if they had an ace up their sleeve--and indeed, as they climbed the stairs to the ring the Jumbotron came back to life.

“Hello again,” said Luthor, waving a purple-draped hand, “I thought I’d add another little stipulation--since it doesn’t sound like you’re _challenged_ enough.” He grinned toothily, and the camera zoomed closer to catch the sadistic gleam in his eye as he said “This match will be a Falls Count Anywhere match.”

Superman and Batman glanced at each other and shrugged. “So we can fight outside the ring,” said Batman. “Trust me, I can have fun with that.”

“Oh, is this still too _easy_ for the dauntless heroes?” said Luthor. “Very well, then.” The arena fell quiet as he went on, his smile stretching impressively: “Let’s just go all the way and add a No Disqualification stipulation.”

Clark could hear the announcers squawking into their headsets as they explained the implications of this, but the audience was way ahead of them and their groans and boos filled the arena. “This means anything goes!” Gorilla Grodd was yelling. “Foreign objects, dirty tricks, and--”

The audience shrieked with anger as Black Manta, Golden Glider, Deathstroke, and Joker appeared at the top of the ramp.

“--outside interference is allowed,” Grodd finished.

“They’ll be massacred!” Glorious Godfrey screamed in rapture. “They’ll be obliterated! They’ll be exterminated! And then they’ll be _fired_!”

The Injustice League stepped forward, the crowd roared outrage--

And Batman started to laugh.

“Oh, come on, Luthor,” he said as the arena hushed to hear him, “Did you _really_ think we didn’t expect something like this? Did you really think we didn’t prepare? And did you really think we’re the only people determined to bring a halt to your reign of terror?” he finished, as four figures appeared behind the Injustice League: Green Lantern, Flash, Aquaman, and Wonder Woman, all grinning.

“Six against six,” said Superman as the crowd’s horror turned to delight and Luthor’s jaw dropped. “Injustice against Justice. I think we’re ready to start.”

The bell rang.

It was a brawl from the beginning, as the Injustice League whirled to confront the heroes and Captain Cold and Heat Wave both jumped Superman and Batman simultaneously. Heat Wave and Superman tumbled out over the ropes and began to trade blows around the ring, almost tripping over cables as the cameras struggled to keep up with them. 

Clark had lost track of Bruce almost instantly in the scrum--the twelve wrestlers had basically broken off into pairs, each of them improvising their part in the brawl, moving around the arena. Glancing around quickly as he prepared to throw Mick into a barricade, Clark could see knots of agitated fans cheering, each of them most likely marking where a pair of wrestlers was doing a spot. With a situation like this, there was no playing to the stationary cameras; you just had to keep performing and hoping that the cameras were there to catch a good moment. It was annoying to watch the footage later and realize the camera hadn’t been live when you got thrown dramatically through a table--but fortunately Superman and Batman were the focus of this match and Clark could count on the cameras on them being live more often than not.

And of course, they would be ready to catch the _big_ spots when they happened.

Mick reversed the throw and tossed Clark into the barricade, and he crumpled to the floor, grimacing in agony. Like flashes of light, he caught a glimpse of a small child hanging over the barricade, hands over his mouth in agonized worry; a man in a Joker t-shirt cheering Heat Wave on; a woman looking frankly bored, her arms crossed. _We’ll just see what we can do about that, Jaded Lady,_ thought Clark as he surged up and slammed his shoulder into Heat Wave’s stomach.

It was amazing, the thought flitted through his mind as he pinned Heat Wave and the crowd nearby leaped to its feet, only to fall again as Heat Wave got his shoulder up, how there was always a cool, abstract part of his mind running a mental stopwatch. As he growled and lunged at Rory once more, he knew that it was almost time for--

There it was. He heard the people near him gasp, saw someone point, and looked up to see the Dark Knight standing on the turnbuckle, pointing toward the Spanish announce table. Clark couldn’t see it from this angle, but he knew that Captain Cold was sprawled across that table. The announcers would be going crazy now, he thought, babbling about how it was too far, how they were both going to die, how--

Batman leaped from the turnbuckle, and both Clark and Mick stopped brawling to turn and stare openly--it wasn’t like anyone would be watching them anyway. He dropped out of sight behind the ring, and the gasp of the crowd drowned out the sound of the impact. Clark turned back to Mick, hitting him with a couple of forearms, trying not to look worried--it was Bruce’s first really high-impact spot since his injury, but he’d be fine, of course he’d be fine.

Mick grabbed him in a headlock and murmured in his ear, “You can look worried, dummy. He’s your partner. Dropkick me. Try to get to him, I’ll stop you.”

Superman broke free and dropkicked Heat Wave, then scrambled to his feet and tried to get around the corner, but Heat Wave grabbed him and dragged him back. Clark took that little seed of worry in his heart and let it blossom into a full-grown look of panic on Superman’s face as he kicked as his opponent, trying to save his partner.

The ref came around the corner at a run and Clark’s heart turned over, but he stopped just long enough to mutter “He’s fine, you’re up next.”

Heat Wave knocked him down and tried to pin him, but Superman kicked out in desperation, then came up swinging, on the offense once more. 

“Here we go,” muttered Mick. “Ready?”

Clark just snorted and hoped that would be taken as an affirmative. It didn’t matter anyway, the spot was going to happen.

The two of them continued the brawl, Heat Wave turning tail and fleeing in a panic up into the stands, trying to shake his pursuer. Superman staggered up the stairs after him, heading up to the balcony level. Clark caught a quick glimpse of Wonder Woman punching Golden Glider--she shot him a quick thumbs-up--and then they were up in the cheap seats, scrambling around as people shrieked and dodged and reached out to touch them.

They made their way to where the Jumbotron was, where Superman delivered a stunning punch to Heat Wave that left him reeling. The audience’s attention wasn’t even on him; everyone was staring down and pointing, and Clark knew that meant Bruce and the others were in position. “Batman!” someone screamed. “Get ‘em, Batman!” There was a groan of dismay, and Clark knew that Batman would be laid out on the floor by now, with Black Manta, Joker, and Deathstroke standing over him, kicking and taunting, softening him up so Captain Cold, rushing up from the ring, could pin him.

Clark shoved his way through the crowd of people craning their necks to see what was going on below, and a ripple of excitement spread out around him as people realized who was pushing his way to the edge of the balcony. “Superman!” someone yelled. “Holy shit!”

Superman jumped to the edge of the balcony, just above the Jumbotron, and the crowd surged upward all around him, cheering him on. Clark looked down at where the three heels stood over a feebly struggling Batman.

It was a long way down, and for one sickening moment he wasn’t sure. But then Black Manta turned and saw him and pointed upward, and the entire arena blazed into noise as the cameras zoomed to catch him, and adrenaline seemed to ignite in his blood, and for just one minute Clark believed that he could fly, and he jumped.

Manta, Joker, and Deathstroke’s hands all grabbed at him as he fell, breaking his plunge with their bodies, and they all went down in a heap on the ground as the furor of the crowd crashed around them. Superman came up first, staring around wildly, and caught sight of Captain Cold coming up the ramp, on his way to make that easy pin.

Captain Cold’s eyes widened at whatever he saw in Superman’s face, and he turned to try and flee, but Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, Flash and Aquaman were all there, blocking his way and smiling. Superman charged forward and threw his shoulder against Captain Cold’s stomach, spearing him onto the ramp, then pinning him.

“Great jump,” panted Leonard in his ear as the ref pounded the ramp and counted. “Congratulations.”

The bell rang.

Superman stood up, staring down at Captain Cold. Everything seemed to be strangely crystal-clear and far away, Clark thought as he looked up at the screaming, cheering fans. Like it was happening in a movie, or a book, not to him. It couldn’t be real. The newly-minted Justice League was applauding him. Diana was crying. It wasn’t real.

Strong arms seized him from behind, and Clark found himself spun around to stare into Batman--into Bruce’s--smiling face. “We did it,” Bruce said--Batman said--and that made it _real_ , Bruce’s arms around him made everything real once again. For one moment there was no disconnect between Clark and Superman, he was truly both of them as he threw his arms around his partner, exaltation lifting him.

He was flying.

The referee lifted their hands there on the ramp, handed them the titles. Clark’s belt was heavy in his hands, the bronze etched with curlicues and feathery designs, swooping and beautiful, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from it. Without thinking, he lifted it and touched his lips to the shining surface, then lifted it above his head with one hand, the other slung around Bruce’s shoulders.

The crowd was chanting something, and he couldn’t make it out at first, it was just a confused welter of sound. Then it coalesced, became clear: “You deserve it.” Chanted over and over again at top volume. He felt tears well up in his eyes and shook his head hard, blinking. Bruce’s hand on his shoulder tightened.

“They didn’t pay their hard-earned money to watch you be stoic,” he heard Bruce murmur. “Just go with it.”

Superman buried his head in Batman’s shoulder and wept, and the crowd roared its approval.

* * *

“Ow.” Superman stumbled as he rounded the corner to backstage and was suddenly Clark again. “Oh.”

“I wondered when you’d notice that,” said Bruce, and shifted his arm to go from around Clark’s shoulders to under his arms, supporting him.

“Did I hurt myself?” Clark said. He tried to put his weight on his left foot and winced, hopping away from the stab of pain. “When?”

“My bad,” said Black Manta, removing his mask. “You banged it when you came down out of the stands. Slipped through my hands a bit.”

“No problem,” said Clark reflexively.

“Let’s get that boot off,” said Bruce, steering him to a chair and kneeling down in front of him. “Yep, that’s at least a sprain.”

Clark looked down at the bruised and swollen ankle and bit his lip. “I didn’t even feel it.”

Bruce looked up from the hands cupping Clark’s foot as if it were infinitely precious. “Adrenaline’s an amazing drug, isn’t it?” A trainer hurried up with ice and bandages and shooed Bruce away, but not before he could stroke his fingers along Clark’s instep briefly. 

Clark shivered and put his new title down across his lap.

* * *

It was a hectic night, full of congratulations and people admiring the new champions, but with the adrenaline drained away Clark felt bone-tired and his ankle hurt. It was a relief when he could finally make his excuses and hobble away, leaning heavily on Bruce, to their hotel room.

It was a boring beige box of a room, but that was fine with Clark. It only served to make their title belts laid out on the bed glow more brightly , like diamonds in a simple setting.

“World’s Finest,” Bruce said as he stripped off his shirt and tossed it across the room. “Undisputed.” He sat down on the bed and patted the gleaming metal. “You’ll be heavyweight champ someday.”

Clark resisted a superstitious impulse to knock on wood. “Let’s focus on the now,” he said. “Now is good.”

“Indeed,” Bruce said, and took his hand to gently tug him down onto the bed, pushing the belts aside to make room. “Now is very good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clark's dive is based heavily on one by Seth Rollins. You can see the official footage of it [here](https://youtu.be/Qed7GcuGWow) and fan-shot footage of it that captures the crowd's reaction better [here](https://youtu.be/kfl2l7ptTAM).


	63. Cages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catwoman is booked to win the Women's Championship, and the Dark Knight faces a challenge by Azrael, determined to prove himself worthy.

_ Vince [McMahon, promoter] likes to be in control so much that he hates even sneezing, because it’s an uncontrollable reflex. I’ve seen him cuss a blue streak after a healthy sneeze or two. He even gets POed when he yawns. --Steve Austin _

Jean-Paul Valley looked directly into the camera, his ice-blue eyes intense. “Since coming back to the DCW, I know--I’ve lost my edge. I challenged Nightwing to a rematch, and I lost. I lost fair and square in the middle of the ring.” He shook his head, all grudging respect. “And I’ve just kept losing. I’ve been trying to figure out what went wrong, why I’m not the competitor I used to be. And it comes down to Batman. To the man who trusted me with his title, with his name, with his legacy. The man I let down.”

Jean-Paul took a deep breath. “Batman, if you’re listening--I want a chance to prove myself against you. A chance to earn back your respect. I want to meet you man to man next week. And I want to meet you in a steel cage, the most grueling and punishing match in the DCW.” The crowd popped like mad. “I want you to know I can take the pain. That I accept it in the name of my redemption.” His eyes gleamed, bright and frenetic. “What do you say, Dark Knight? Shall we face each other at last?”

For a long moment, there was no response. Then something thudded into the wall near Jean-Paul’s head. Jean-Paul pulled it out and the camera zoomed in close to show a little piece of metal shaped like a stylized bat. Written on it in neat black letters: **I accept**.

* * *

Lex Luthor’s purple tie was a tiny visual reminder of his days as an malign hooded mastermind. He didn’t bother to wear the full Evil Genius Gear anymore, but no one was likely to forget his role as he addressed the Injustice League, sitting around his office either cringing or looking sullen.

“Superman and Batman have been tag team champs for months, Wonder Woman’s been the women’s champion almost as long, and not one of you incompetents has been able to defeat Nightwing for the heavyweight championship! How hard can it be, you bunch of clowns?”

“Hey,” said the Joker. “There’s only one of us good enough to be a clown.”

“Cheetah,” said Luthor, ignoring him. “I’m putting you in a fatal four-way with Wonder Woman.”

Cheetah purred and looked at her nails. “Who are the other two?”

“Silver Banshee,” said Luthor, and the newest member of the Injustice League tossed her silvery hair back, smiling. “An excellent choice.”

“Of course I am.”

“And the fourth person...Catwoman. You’ll do.”

“I’ll _do_?” Catwoman snarled from her place near the door. “I’m better than any of them and you know it.”

“Well, here’s your chance to prove it. As long as Wonder Woman ends up losing the championship, I don’t really care which of my girls wins.”

Catwoman hissed. “I’m not ‘one of your girls,’ Lex. And I’m not a dog that will come to heel on your beck and call. I’ll be happy to beat Wonder Woman, but I’m in business for myself, not your silly League.”

The camera caught her as she left, then swiveled to catch Luthor’s glower and mutter: “We’ll have to take care of her, too.”

* * *

“I like it,” Bruce said, tossing his bat-shaped throwing star at the already-perforated common room couch. “I think I’ll call it a batarang.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Dick from an improbable perch on the back of a chair. “It doesn’t return.”

“Sure it does,” said Bruce, walking over to retrieve it. He held it up. “See?”

“Don’t use it too often,” warned Clark. “First, you’ll have to pay for wall repair. Second, if kids start chucking metal objects at each other because their favorite babyface does it, Lex will find himself with a lawsuit on his hands.”

Bruce bit his lip in concentration and threw it again. “Don’t try this at home, kids,” he intoned as it clattered across the floor. 

“I don’t like this match,” Dick said in a low voice meant for just the three of them. 

“The cage match with Jean-Paul? We’ve gone over it, it’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like the storyline,” said Dick. “I don’t like that he’s using you to get Jean-Paul over with the crowds. He’s making you a tool in Azrael’s redemption story.”

Bruce gave him a sharp look. “I’ve been a tool in a lot of stories, Dick. It’s what we do. If Azrael’s going to come back, he’s going to have to deal with the history between us.”

Dick muttered something that Clark couldn’t catch all of, but it sounded like it ended with “...didn’t _need_ to come back.” 

However, the conversation ended as Bruce and Clark were grabbed from behind.

“A title for Catwoman, a title for Catwoman!” Selina sang out, throwing her arms around Clark and Bruce from behind and swinging from their shoulders like a child. “Oh, I’m sitting in the catbird seat at last.”

“If Diana’s got to lose it, I’m glad it’s to you,” Clark said, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“You freaking babyfaces can’t hold all the titles forever. For God’s sake, throw us poor heels a bone. Or a nice can of tuna, as the case may be. At least Bruce is happy for me, aren’t you, Bruce?” she asked, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing.

“Ecstatic,” Bruce said deadpan, but there was a smile lurking in his eyes.

“You sweetheart,” she said, and kissed his cheek while smiling impishly at Clark. Clark just raised an eyebrow; by now he’d gotten used to Selina teasing him by flirting with Bruce. “The only thing I’m worried about is Banshee.”

“She’s pretty green to be in a title match,” Clark agreed.

“Green? Siobhan’s _viridian._ I mean, she’s trying, and she’s eager to learn, but there’s no getting around the fact that she was hired for the cheesecake factor. There’s nothing wrong with having pretty women around, mind you!” she said. “But I’d like them to be a lot more comfortable in the ring before they’re thrown into a title match.”

“At least you’ve got Haly refereeing,” said Dick. “Pop will make sure everything runs smooth.” 

“I hope so,” said Selina, but she still looked worried.

* * *

“I don’t need you guys to come in with me,” Dick Grayson said, looking left at Bruce and right at Clark in turn. “I can handle this.”

“We know you can,” said Clark, deciding it would be best not to mention Bruce’s worried conversation with him the night before.

“Re-negotiating contracts are always a tricky business,” Bruce had said.

Clark had sighed, watching him pace. “I know that, Bruce. I’ve re-negotiated mine a few times, in a few promotions.”

“Dick’s never had a contract run out while holding a title,” Bruce said. “And with Lord’s promotion just waiting to snap him up--” He had broken off, worrying at his lip, and didn’t finish the sentence.

Clark pulled himself back to the present, where Bruce was not biting his lip, but Clark could tell from the set of his mouth that it was a deliberate choice not to. “We just want to make sure you get a fair shake with Luthor,” said Bruce. “I mean--” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Not that anyone could take the place of your parents, but Clark and I are… We care about you a lot,” he said.

Clark was still blinking at the implication that he and Bruce were like Dick’s adopted parents when Dick knocked on Luthor’s door. If he was blushing a little when the door opened, he hoped Luthor wouldn’t notice.

* * *

“I trust that the figures are satisfactory to you and your...bodyguards?” Luthor said to Dick, lifting an eyebrow at Clark and Bruce.

DIck leaned forward. “The money’s more than satisfactory, Luthor. It always has been. But there are other considerations before I re-sign.”

Luthor made a graceful _do go on_ gesture.

“I want control over the Grayson name,” said Dick. “No one can invoke it without my approval.”

Luthor sat back in his seat and steepled his fingers, looking at Dick. There was a long, awkward silence, in which Clark remembered vividly Jean-Paul Valley flinging the Grayson’s deaths in Dick’s face as a “cheap stunt.”

“That seems fair,” said Luthor, and Clark felt rather than heard Bruce’s slow exhalation.

“Thank you,” said Dick, sounding sincerely grateful. “That’s very kind of you.” 

“It’s your family,” said Luthor. “Family is important.” He made a memo on his phone, and Clark relaxed. He hadn’t expected this part to go so well.

“And there’s one more thing,” Dick said, and Clark froze. There hadn’t been “one more thing” in their discussions of this meeting. “I’d like to have it as part of my contract that I get creative control over how I relinquish the title.” Luthor’s head came up. “I’ll drop it when you tell me to, but I want some input into how the storyline gets handled.”

Luthor smiled. “Of course you’ll have input when that happens, Dick.”

“I mean, I’d like it in writing. As part of my contract.” Dick cleared his throat. “That I have to agree to how it goes.”

“You want to be able to book your own title defenses? That’s absurd.”

“No, I don’t need to book them. I just want--well, something like veto power.”

“That’s not possible,” said Luthor.

“I’m not asking for control over _all_ my storylines,” Dick said. “Just how I drop the strap.” Luthor was shaking his head slowly. “I’ve been a great champion, Luthor, and you know it. I never miss a show, I draw crowds, I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. All I want is to be able to veto ideas on this one point.”

“Dick’s always put over anyone you’ve asked,” Clark spoke up. “You know he’s never disappointed, in the ring or out of it.” 

“Giving him veto power over this one thing should be something you can do, Luthor,” said Bruce. “It’s not like you’ll be letting him write his own stories.”

Luthor stood. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said, but his voice was hard and distant. “You think about it too,” he said. “It would be a shame if we had to part ways because you refused to budge on this point.” 

“Yes, it would,” said Dick, standing in turn.

Clark shot Bruce a look as they left, but Bruce’s face was opaque.

“Thanks for backing me up there,” said Dick as they headed toward the locker room.

Bruce grabbed his arm and steered him out of an emergency exit and into an alley. A stiff breeze rummaged through the litter on the ground, chill with the coming autumn. “You didn’t leave us much choice,” he snapped as the door closed behind them, “Springing it on us without warning like that.”

“Yeah, well.” Dick looked sheepish. “I was afraid you’d try to talk me out of it.”

“We would have,” said Clark. “You know wrestlers can’t get veto power over their storylines, Dick. It would undermine the whole thing--I mean, what if Billy Batson could veto any loss? Everything would unravel.”

“This one thing,” said Dick. He looked at Clark, imploring. “Just this one thing. Me, my family--we’ve worked so hard for Luthor. It’s a small thing to ask in return. I can’t bear to drop the title to--” He broke off and tried again. “I need to control who I drop the title to.”

“Dick, we understand,” said Bruce. “Really, we do. But I don’t think it’s something Luthor’s going to compromise on.” Clark saw him swallow. “I’m not sure I would, if I were a promoter.”

Dick looked at Bruce for a long moment. “Then I guess I’m glad I’m not working for you,” he said. Then he looked down, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Bruce. This means a lot to me, and I don’t know if I’m willing to compromise. My contract runs out in a month. We’ll see if Luthor or I budge first.”

He turned and went back into the building, leaving Clark and Bruce in the alley. The breeze picked up for a gust and a scattering of fallen leaves scurried past their feet. Clark shivered. “Luthor’s not going to budge on this.”

Bruce wrapped his arms around himself. “Dick won’t either,” he said.

* * *

“Siobhan seems to be doing fine,” said Clark later that week as he pulled on his tights, one eye on the monitor. 

“Mm,” said Bruce as Wonder Woman got the Silver Banshee in a headlock and Siobhan screamed in agony. “She’s getting a lot better at selling, I’ll give her that. But she still shouldn’t be in a title match. Especially not a four-way match like this. There’s just way too much that can go wrong.” Cheetah flipped Banshee onto her back and pinned her, and the referee’s fist came down: one--two-- 

Cheetah dragged Wonder Woman off of Banshee, breaking the pin and Irish whipping her into the turnbuckle. Four-way matches, in which a victory could be won by pinning anyone in the match, were always chaotic affairs, and with the title on the line it was even more so: as the announcers loved to remind everyone, this meant that Wonder Woman could lose the title without ever actually being pinned herself. Having Catwoman pin Cheetah to win the title away from Wonder Woman was a classic way to set up an immediate feud between the two while leaving open the question of who was better for the time being.

Clark adjusted the chain that kept his cape fastened around his shoulders, making sure the clasp would give easily when he needed to remove it. He didn’t check it once, and it had led to an awkward and interminable moment where it looked like he was going to have to wrestle his own cape instead of his opponent. He always checked it now.

On the monitor, Cheetah delivered a dropkick to Wonder Woman, who was still reeling against the turnbuckle. Catwoman had been knocked out of the ring a little while ago; Clark could see her selling being unconscious on the floor while some of the smarkier fans leaned over the barricade, begging her to get up, to fight, to win. 

Cheetah turned her back on the champion. She leaped at Silver Banshee, still lying “dazed” on the mat, and covered her, pinning her shoulders to the mat and hooking her leg. The crowd popped: was Cheetah actually going to win the title?

The ref pounded the mat: one--two--

Silver Banshee’s shoulders stayed on the mat. She didn’t kick out. If the ref’s hand hit the mat one more time, the title would go to Cheetah.

The ref’s fist hesitated in the air for a grotesque split-second too long, and Clark heard Bruce curse.

Banshee’s shoulder came up just before the fateful three-count that would declare Cheetah the winner--but it was obvious that Cheetah had grabbed her shoulder and lifted it.

Cheetah rolled off and started complaining furiously with the ref, pulling attention from Siobhan’s stricken face as the audience’s boos and jeers filled the air. Clark saw Selina, on the far edge of the screen, give up pretending to be out cold; clearly the situation called for a quick conclusion to the match.

Catwoman scrambled into the ring, where Cheetah still had her back turned to Silver Banshee to argue with the ref and Wonder Woman was sagging, dazed, against the turnbuckle. With a short, sharp cry, she delivered a beautiful enzuigiri kick to the side of Cheetah’s head, and Cheetah fell to her hands and knees, shaking her head. Without any pause, Catwoman pinned Silver Banshee, glaring up at the ref, and the ref counted one--two--three without any hesitation.

The bell rang and Catwoman was handed the beautiful platinum belt. She smiled and lifted it above her head, coyly checking the nails of her free hand. The camera caught a beautiful shot of her admiring her face in its polished surface: Selina Kyle, champion at last. The boos gave way to adulation for their favorite leather-clad women’s wrestler; in the arena the smarks were celebrating.

Backstage was chaos.

“God _damn_ it, Haley!” Luthor was raging. “You’ve been in this business for decades, you _know_ you can’t pause! It destroys the illusion! It destroys _everything_!”

“What,” said Conner, “Should he have just let Cheetah rob Selina of the title because Siobhan messed up?”

“Yes,” said Dick. “The referee _has_ to be an impartial bystander in the eyes of the audience. If the ref hesitates in the count, it makes it obvious that it’s all an act.”

“The smoke blows away, the mirrors break,” said Bruce.

“He should have given the win to Cheetah,” said Clark as Luthor continued to castigate Pop Haley, who was gritting his teeth and enduring it. “They could have found a way to strip her of the title later, or just put her into a rematch with Catwoman at the next show.”

“She,” Luthor snarled, pointing at a pale and shaken Siobhan, “Is inexperienced. I take full responsibility for putting her in the ring. But _you_ have been in this business as long as I have, and you should know better.” He pointed at two of the writers. “Chuck. Doug. I’ll need to cut a promo addressing this tomorrow. Come up with a storyline reason why Haley might have been corrupted by Silver Banshee. Haley, I’ll need you to cut a generic promo with me in my office. Just hang your head and say you don’t know what happened as I chew you out.”

“Yes sir,” said Haley.

“After that I think you’ll be taking some time off to think about the consequences of your actions.” 

Haley was sweating. “Yes sir. I’m sorry, sir.” 

“I am too, Jack,” said Luthor. “You’ve worked for my family for a long time. Let’s hope time hasn’t passed you by.” He turned to Selina, who had an arm around Siobhan. “Congratulations on your title, Ms Kyle,” he said. “I regret that it was won in such controversial circumstances. But I’m certain you’ll be a credit to it, just as Ms Prince was before.”

“We’d better get out to Gorilla position,” said Bruce to Clark. “My match is up next. Are you ready to emote worry and concern?”

“I am indeed,” said Clark.

* * *

The cage was a massive fence of chain links that surrounded the ring, locking the two wrestlers inside. A wrestler could win by pinfall, submission, or climbing the fence and getting both feet down on the other side.

Superman paced outside the cage as they padlocked the door, hands clasped behind his back, keeping an eye on the Dark Knight. Superman had voiced his doubts about this match many times to his tag team partner, but Batman had insisted on accepting the challenge. Batman gave Superman a long, level look as the door clanged shut behind him, then turned to face Azrael, already standing in the middle of the ring. Azrael extended his hand, and after a fraught moment, Batman stepped forward and took it. Their clasped hands radiated tension, but neither wrestler did anything underhanded, and they stepped away from each other without incident. The bell rang, and the two circled each other, sizing each other up, before Azrael lunged at the Dark Knight and grappled with him.

The match went out of the ring quickly as Azrael threw the Dark Knight against the chain links, hurling him with enough force to make the whole cage shake, then smashing him against it once again. There were welts on Batman’s back by the time he was able to break away, little bloody diamonds crisscrossing his shoulders. They battled around the cage, bashing each other up against it hard enough to make the people in the front row gasp and flinch away. Batman dragged Azrael into the ring for a dazzling sequence of quick mat work, holds and reverses, kicks and punches, until they finally broke away into a tense face off, staring at each other.

From the sidelines, Superman yelled encouragement.

This time, when the two clashed, Azrael got the upper hand and slammed Batman into the cage face-first, pressing him against it so his face was crushed against the links. “Batman!” cried Superman from the other side, reaching out as if he wished he could help his partner, his fingers briefly touching the Dark Knights’ through the fence, his face distressed-- _That will be in the gallery for this match_ , Clark thought with satisfaction. “Climb out!” he yelled.

Batman shook his head, the links scraping against his face at the motion. Azrael showed no inclination to try and take the coward’s way out either, and the battle raged on, two equally-matched gladiators each refusing to give an inch to the other.

It looked like the match could have gone on until both Batman and Azrael collapsed in exhaustion, but a sudden shriek from the audience heralded the beginning of the final act. Joker, Killer Croc, and the Cluemaster came running down the ramp, heading for the cage. Superman stood between them, and for a moment there was a dual standoff: Superman with the villains outside to cage back to back with Batman and Azrael inside the cage. Clark could feel the heat of Bruce’s back against his, slick with sweat, as they stood for an endless moment of tableau.

The three villains jumped forward and attacked Superman. He held them off for a moment, but with three against one, he soon buckled to his knees, raising his hands against a flurry of blows.

Inside the ring, Batman called out to him and started to climb the fence.

Azrael grabbed him by the foot and dragged him back down, and Batman turned on him in a fury. “He’s my _partner!_ ” the Dark Knight yelled. “I’ve got to help him!”

Azrael hesitated, his eyes locked on the Dark Knight’s. Then he stepped back, raising his hands. Letting the Dark Knight climb the cage.

Batman didn’t waste any time, hurling himself up the fence in a frenzy. From his huddled position on the floor, Clark could feel the steel rattling as he hoisted himself up. The three villains immediately abandoned Superman--although Joker got a solid last kick in for good measure--and raced up the cage on their own side to try and prevent the Dark Knight from getting out.

The crowd waited in breathless suspense as all four wrestlers clung to the fence, kicking and wrenching at the person on the other side. Finally, the heels managed to throw the Dark Knight off, and he plummeted backwards from the cage, falling onto the ropes, the breath knocked out of him--the crowd gasped in horror and Clark resisted the temptation to peek out and make sure he was all right.

The three heels descended the fence and fell on Batman, kicking and taunting. The bell rang--outside interference that helped Azrael meant an automatic win via disqualification for the Dark Knight. But what good was a win if he were beaten to a pulp by his enemies? The crowd shrieked its fury and concern.

And then Azrael fell on them like the wrath of God, hurling Joker bodily out of the ring and sending the other two staggering back for a moment.

He helped the Dark Knight to his feet, and for a moment the two of them clasped hands. Then they turned to fight their foes together.

By now Superman had struggled to his feet, and he began to make his way up the cage. At the top, he paused to look down on the battle raging beneath him.

Then Clark launched himself from the top of the cage into the ring, falling on Killer Croc and the Cluemaster as they stood unawares.

The crowd screamed approval. Azrael and the Dark Knight both hit the Joker with an uppercut simultaneously, and the three victorious wrestlers stood in the ring together.

Azrael had lost the match, but won the hearts of many in the crowd.

* * *

The next show was a busy one that left everyone buzzing. Catwoman defended her title against Wonder Woman in their rematch. It was a hard battle, but at the end Catwoman triumphed and retained her title, laughing merrily while she swung it around her head.

Superman and Batman started an angle with two new wrestlers, Zod and Non, billed as also being from Krypton. They brought with them a new female wrestler, Ursa, who taunted the World’s Finest team until suddenly a figure ran down the ramp to confront her: a young woman dressed in familiar red and blue, her blond hair streaming loose.

“Kal!” she cried out to Superman, who stared at her.

“Kara?”

She laughed and decked Ursa with a well-placed uppercut. Supergirl had arrived.

But the thing that got the most online buzz was the promo Azrael cut. “I’ve proven myself to the Dark Knight,” he said slowly, eyes blazing. “Now I only have one person left to prove myself to in order to complete my redemption.” 

He pointed at the camera. “Nightwing! You claimed the mantle of the Bat should never have been mine. But I shall show you--and everyone--that I am worthy now!”

* * *

“Luthor’s going to put the strap on him.” Dick had the championship belt slung over his shoulder, his fingers tracing the engraved words unconsciously.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Clark said as he threw his gear into a suitcase. They were heading to Metropolis next, and he’d have a chance to stay in their apartment, on home turf for a few days. He could hardly wait.

“He is,” Dick said. “He thinks Jean-Paul’s the best thing since sliced bread, and he’s always thought of me as just a skinny kid who does flippy stuff.” He shook his head. “I asked him again for that contract stipulation, and he turned me down flat. I even leveled with him, asked him to just promise me that he wouldn’t make me drop it to Valley. Anyone but him. No go.”

“Dick,” said Bruce, and there was something close to panic in his eyes. “Don’t do anything rash.”

Dick sighed and looked at his mentor. “It’s not rash, Bruce. You know I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. This is just the final straw.

I called Max Lord this afternoon. When my contract with the DCW runs out next month, I’m going to sign with the Titans.”


	64. The Gotham Screwjob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a contract dispute leads to one of the most important events in the history of professional wrestling.

_ Looking out at the stunned crowd, I fought the tears that were swimming in my eyes and thought, Don’t you dare give these backstabbers the satisfaction of seeing you cry over any of this! Don’t you dare cry! I worked so hard for him, fourteen years, all I wanted was my dignity. --Bret Hart, on the Montreal Screwjob _

The basic facts of what came to be known as the Gotham Screwjob are simple enough:

Fact: The champion, Dick Grayson, was booked to defend his championship against Azrael at the Vigilante Justice annual pay-per-view show.

Fact: Grayson’s contract was due to run out at midnight that very day. After the PPV, he would no longer be an employee of the DCW.

Fact: Vigilante Justice was being held in Gotham that year.

The facts are simple enough.

It was in the clash of personalities involved that the event moved from a banal contract dispute to the modern equivalent of a Greek tragedy, in which everything proceeded inexorably from what had come before, agonizing and inevitable.

* * *

_Five days to Vigilante Justice_

“You can’t ask that of me,” Dick Grayson said to Lex Luthor.

Luthor paused with his hand on the door of the common room, then turned around slowly to look at the heavyweight champion, standing on the other side of the room. Various wrestlers in the middle tried to act as if they weren’t listening intently. “Excuse me?” Luthor said.

“You can’t ask me to drop the strap to Jean-Paul in Gotham,” Dick said.

“You’re leaving the next day to work for a different promotion,” Luthor said. “You are most certainly not taking my championship with you to Lord’s promotion.”

“Holy smokes,” said Billy Batson, dropping any pretense of not listening, “I should hope not. He’d love a chance to get back at the DCW for--”

“--For when _you_ jumped ship and literally dumped his title in the trash, yes,” snapped Dick. He looked back at Luthor. “You know I’d never do that. You know this title--” He lifted the shining belt, “--means the world to me. It’s _because_ it means so much to me that I can’t do what you’re asking. Anywhere else. I’ll drop the strap anywhere but Gotham.”

“If you’d told me sooner you were leaving, maybe. But Vigilante Justice is the next show. It’s our only chance to take it off you before you go. Look, don’t take it so personally. It’s just business, kid,” said Luthor, not unkindly.

“It’s not just business!” cried Dick. He swallowed hard and had to take a moment before continuing. “Please. I’ll drop it to anyone but Jean-Paul.”

Luthor shook his head. “That’s the story we’re telling, Azrael making up for the mistakes of his past. You’ve already forced me to rush the story, I’m not changing the end just because you don’t want to work here anymore.”

“Lex, come on,” said Dick. “I’ve done everything--well, pretty much everything--you’ve asked. Do this one thing for me. I’ll drop it anywhere but Gotham,” said Dick. “I’ll lose to Jean-Paul at the show the next day in Metropolis.”

“Kid.” Luthor’s voice was less friendly now. Clark saw Bruce quietly move to stand slightly closer to Dick. “Your contract runs out the night of Vigilante Justice. After that you’re not contractually bound to hand the title over.”

Dick’s voice was tight with anguish. “ _Contractually bound_? You really think I’d refuse to lose in Metropolis? You can’t trust my word?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, but this isn’t some kind of feudal system, Grayson. It’s a business.”

Dick struck the shining belt on his shoulder with one hand; it made a hollow _thump_ that cut across the people trying to keep their conversations going, and silence fell in its wake. “You’re asking me to lose and hand over this championship to the man who said my parents’ deaths were a waste, in the city they died in-- _in the very building where they died?_ ” Dick pointed at Luthor with a shaking hand. “My parents lost their lives for this promotion, and this is how you honor their memories? I watched their harness fail, I watched them fall, I _saw that damn shoddy bolt_!”

Clark had jumped to his feet as if he could somehow keep those last, accusing words from leaving Dick’s mouth, but it was too late. Luthor’s eyes went cold and distant, but not before Clark caught the flash of shame and fury within them, shuttered so quickly almost anyone would have missed it.

“The situation is what it is, Grayson,” said Luthor. “We don’t need to keep discussing this in public. If you can find another way out, let me know. Until then, you’re turning over the belt to Valley Sunday.”

He turned and left the room, and everyone looked anywhere except at Dick Grayson and tried to continue their conversations.

* * *

_Three days to Vigilante Justice_

“Pop!” Dick flung his arms around Haley in his black and white referee uniform. “Will you be working the show tonight?”

Pop Haley returned the hug, thumping him on the back. “Lex said I could do a few house shows, see how my reflexes were. If I can get through those, he might let me get back on television again.”

“I’m so glad,” Dick said. “I mean, not just to have you back, but it’s a relief to know Luthor can be reasoned with, you know? That he can compromise a bit. There’s still some hope for the Gotham show.”

Haley smiled. “There’s...always hope,” he said.

* * *

_One day to Vigilante Justice_

“I understand, Kent,” said Jean-Paul Valley, putting down his coffee cup and meeting Clark’s eyes. The buzz of the coffee shop veiled their conversation from their neighbors, but nothing could veil the intensity of Jean-Paul’s eyes. “But you need to understand me as well: This is not only about the redemption of Azrael. It is about my redemption as a wrestler, as a champion. As my father’s son.”

Although he was looking at Clark, but his gaze seemed somehow fixed on a point beyond Clark, some distant infinity.

“My father expected perfection from his sons, and all of them supplied it--except me. I gave up, Kent. I left, I went to engineering school. I was buried in my books as one by one, my brothers died: of drugs, of careless accidents, by their own hand. I abandoned them to bear the white-hot flame of our father’s love alone, and only when the last of them was gone did I realize I had been avoiding my destiny. They spoke to me, Kent,” he said. “I heard their voices and knew that my father too was dying, and that I was the last, and I had to carry on for them. And then I became champion hiding under another man’s identity, and I snapped under the weight of it. I was unworthy of my brothers’ deaths.”

Clark stared at him, appalled. He knew the story of the Valley family, everyone did, but he had never heard Jean-Paul speak of it so openly.

“If Grayson comes up with some satisfactory alternative,” said Jean-Paul, “I’ll be open to it. But he is _not_ leaving Vigilante Justice with the title. Lex Luthor has given me a second chance to prove myself a worthy champion, to let me redeem myself. I will not fail him this time.”

“Jean-Paul,” he said, “Your brothers wouldn’t want you to suffer like this. Your father wouldn’t want--”

A harsh laugh. “Don’t presume to lecture me on what my father would have wanted, Kent,” he said. “You’re not from a wrestling family. You wouldn’t understand.” 

He almost smiled. 

“It’s ironic, I suppose, that Grayson probably would.”

* * *

“Gosh,” said Linda Danvers, glancing back at the common room. “Is it always so, uh…” She waved her hands vaguely. “So tense here?”

It was the night of Vigilante Justice, and the show was due to start in a handful of hours. There still was no break on the stalemate about the heavyweight championship.

Clark smiled down at his “cousin.” Linda was another young transplant from Sparkle, a small independent promotion that Lex had pulled some promising female wrestlers from. “It’s a little unusually tense right now,” he said. “Don’t let it bother you. You and Ursa just go out there and put on a great match.”

“I can’t believe I’m in a pay-per-view so soon!” Kara clasped her hands together and twirled.

“It’s just the pre-show, babe. Chill out,” drawled Ursula Douglas, punching Linda on the arm as she came out of the locker room and caught her opponent’s pirouette.

“Ursa!” Linda threw her arms around her and spun them both around; Ursa tolerated it with a long-suffering look. “Come on, you’re as excited as I am underneath all that cool, admit it.”

“ _May_ be,” drawled Ursa, and kissed her cheek.

They headed into the locker room together, and Clark found himself smiling as he headed toward the men’s locker room. It was always good to see young wrestlers excited and nervous about their biggest match to date.

His smile dissipated as he walked into the locker room and saw Dick and Bruce locked in an intense discussion.

“--and I’m telling you, I can handle it by myself,” Dick snapped. 

“I just think you should have some backup when you go in there,” Bruce said.

“I’m not a _child_ , Bruce. I can fight my own battles without the two of you hovering over my shoulders at every moment. I’m leaving for a new promotion without you, I have to start being my own man.”

Bruce cast Clark a quick look as Clark came closer, and for a second there was a naked appeal in his eyes: _Stop him. Help._ “They still haven’t resolved the title handover,” Bruce said to Clark. “Dick’s going in to talk to Lex now.”

“This might not be the best time for you to do this on your own,” said Clark.

Dick squared his shoulders. “It’s the only time I have left, Clark. Thanks, but I can handle this.”

And he turned and went into Luthor’s office.

Bruce started pacing the second the door clicked shut. “I should be in there. We should be in there.”

“He’s right, though. You can’t be there protecting him forever.”

“I don’t want to be. I just want to protect him _now_ ,” Bruce snapped.

Clark caught his arm as he went by, stopping his furious pacing. “Don’t underestimate Dick,” he murmured, putting his arm around Bruce’s shoulders in a half hug. 

Bruce’s shoulders stayed tense under his touch.

Killer Moth and Firebug wandered into the common room, bickering about their workout routines. They saw Bruce and froze, looking for a moment as if they were thinking about slinking out of the room before Bruce saw them. Then they gave each other a look, gritted their teeth, and came over.

“Okay, Wayne,” said Killer Moth. “I know you’re going to want to go over the match one more time before--”

Bruce cut him off with a brusque hand wave. “We’re fine,” he said.

“What?” said Firebug, looking at Killer Moth for confirmation that he had truly heard Bruce Wayne say these words. “You don’t want to lecture us on our psychology one more time and--”

“We’re fine,” Bruce repeated. “You know what you’re doing. We can just wing it.”

“Ha ha,” said Killer Moth, staring at him. “ _Wing it,_ I get it. Nice pun.”

“I don’t think he did that on purpose,” said Firebug, pulling him away. He cast a quick look at Clark: _Is he okay?_

Clark shrugged and Firebug shrugged back as he and Killer Moth headed off to get some coffee.

The door opened and Dick came out. He looked tired, but he was smiling.

“We’ve reached a compromise,” he said in a low voice as Bruce pulled him aside. “We’ve come up with a finish that should work.”

“Tell me,” said Bruce.

“Okay, Azrael is going to get me in the Flying Grayson--” His mother’s submission hold, “--but I’m going to power out of it, of course. When I do, though, I’ll knock Azrael into the ref. The ref will disqualify him, so I’ll retain the title, but he’ll be honorable about it and apologize and I’ll give him a rematch tomorrow night in Metropolis. I’ll drop the strap to him then. See?” He smiled, giddy with relief. “I knew it would all work out. Luthor’s even putting in Pop Haly as the ref, as a favor to me, to show Pop’s forgiven with that botch in the women’s match. Everything’s going to go just fine.”

“But your contract still runs out at midnight,” Clark said.

“I told him I’d even do the show for free, in thanks for everything he’s done for me. I swore that I wouldn’t take the belt with me,” Dick said. “I swore it _on the graves of my parents._ Luthor knows I’d never break that vow. We shook on it, Clark. He gave me his hand.” He clapped Clark on the shoulder, and there were tears in his eyes. “I’m so sad to be going, Clark. But it’s going to be okay.” He looked at Bruce, blinking hard. “I just hope I can do you proud, Bruce. Tonight, and tomorrow, and everywhere I go.”

Bruce took Dick’s shoulders in his hands, and kissed his forehead with a formal solemnity. “Tonight, and tomorrow, and everywhere you go,” he said. “I’m proud of you. And your parents would be too.”

* * *

The match with Firebug and Killer Moth went off without a hitch, and Superman and Batman retained their titles. It was a perfectly fine match, and one that absolutely no one, including Clark and Bruce, would remember later.

“Right,” said Mercy Graves, showing up backstage with a camera crew. “You need to cut your post-show promo against the Bug Squad now.”

“Right now?” said Bruce, frowning. “But--”

“Right now,” said Mercy, gesturing to the cameras.

“It’s just going to be put on Youtube later,” said Clark. “Couldn’t it wait until after--”

“--Now,” said Mercy.

Bruce looked at where Nightwing, belt around his waist, was preparing to go out to the ring, and grimaced. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”

It was probably the worst promo the World’s Finest Tag Team ever cut. The Dark Knight’s patter and insults were a beat behind, and he didn’t pick up on some clear lines handed him by Superman. As Superman was explaining that they were the bug zappers that would take out Killer Moth and Firebug for good next time, Nightwing’s entrance music hit and a roar went up that would be clearly audible on the footage.

Batman grabbed Superman’s shoulder. “I can’t--” he said. He turned to the camera. “He’s like my son. I have to go watch this. I’m sorry.”

And he walked out of the promo.

A flustered Superman wrapped up the promo with a couple more insect puns, then bolted after him, leaving a bemused Jimmy Olsen to finish up.

Bruce was standing in front of the monitors when Clark caught up to him, his arms crossed, his eyes hard to read through the Batman cowl as he watched Azrael and Nightwing wrestling. At ringside, Lex Luthor was providing guest commentary. Clark could hear his smooth, urbane voice explaining moves, selling the story, and he remembered that Lex had been a good commentator when he was younger. He didn’t sit at ringside often anymore, though.

“It was good psychology,” Bruce said as Clark came to stand beside him. “The Dark Knight wouldn’t make stupid moth jokes when Nightwing was defending his title. Totally in-character for him to leave like that.”

“Convenient that it also happens to be true,” said Clark, and saw the corner of Bruce’s mouth lift in a near-smile.

The smile vanished as Azrael clotheslined Nightwing, sending the champion crashing to the mat. Bruce drummed his fingers on his arm as Dick staggered to his feet. “I’ll be glad when this is over,” he said.

“I don’t know,” said Clark. “Tonight and tomorrow are his last big matches in the DCW. I kind of want them to go on forever.”

“Leaving is the right choice,” said Bruce. “He’ll thrive in a story-heavy promotion like the Titans. He’ll become his own man, the wrestler he was always meant to be. I just wish--I wish things could have gone more smoothly.”

It was a good match. Dick and Jean-Paul had always worked pretty stiff with each other, and tonight it added an extra layer of brutality to a very personal match. Azrael’s face was grim with concentration, his eyes fixed on his redemption. Nightwing was fighting back, struggling, almost overpowered by the determination of Azrael, but never giving up. Never.

Azrael countered a move by Nightwing and flipped Nightwing onto his stomach, twisting his legs up and back, locking in the Flying Grayson, Mary Grayson’s signature submission. The crowd shrieked with fury and horror as Nightwing struggled toward the ropes, unable to reach them. The commentators went crazy: would Nightwing tap out to his mother’s own move? Impossible!

Nightwing twisted in agony, unable to break the hold. He pulled at his hair. His hand hovered above the mat, irresolute as pain knifed through him. Would he give up? 

Clark never knew what it was that Bruce saw, whether it was something in Luthor’s tone of voice, something in Pop Haly’s expression, or whether it was just an intuition of doom. But he heard Bruce breathe “Oh my God. No,” and there was such stark horror in his voice that Clark’s breath caught.

On the screen, Nightwing’s hand wavered above the mat.

And Pop Haly waved his arms and announced that Nightwing had submitted, that the match was over, that Azrael was the winner.

There was a heartbeat of shocked silence in which everything seemed to stop: the crowd, the combatants in the ring, the wrestlers watching backstage. And into that silence Lex Luthor’s voice carried like a gunshot.

_”Ring the bell!”_ Luthor snapped, jumping to his feet. All the urbanity was gone from his voice; it was a hoarse bark, almost panicked. “Ring it! Ring it now, god damn it!”

The bell rang, a strange awkward clank, and the match was over. 

Nightwing had submitted to his mother’s signature move.

He had lost the belt.

To Azrael.

In Gotham.

_”No!”_

Clark turned at the cry, but the space next to him was already empty.

* * *

He charged after Bruce, shoving people out of his way as he ran through the Gorilla position and out onto the ramp. The crowd noise swirled and eddied around him--no cheering, no booing, just confusion. Bruce was already ahead of him, Clark was never going to reach him. 

He would have nightmares for the rest of his life about that run down the ramp, nightmares in which it seemed to stretch out forever, in which he couldn’t seem to move his legs. Fragments of vision flickered and dimmed around him. 

He passed Azrael, who was coming up the ramp holding his new championship belt, his face pale and dazed. 

Faces in the crowd. Shocked. Angry. Cheering. Confused. A crying child. A cursing man.

He saw Dick Grayson leaning on the ropes, his face twisted in exhaustion and anguish. He was weeping, not bothering to wipe the tears away, staring out at the Gotham that had witnessed his parents’ deaths and had now witnessed his failure.

Clark had no time to stop and confront any of them, he was running toward Bruce, who was closing on Lex Luthor. He reached out and caught the fluttering edge of Bruce’s cape, but it slipped through his fingers.

Luthor turned to meet the Dark Knight and for a bare second the cameras caught his face, more resigned than triumphant.

Then the Dark Knight punched him, and Luthor fell back against the announcer’s table, clutching his eye. The people nearby in the audience cheered for a second, then looked confused again. It felt too raw, too real, and paradoxically not dramatic _enough_. Luthor didn’t howl or wave his arms or suffer in any satisfying way, he just gritted his teeth and stood there, glaring at the Dark Knight.

The Dark Knight pointed at Luthor, and his voice was hoarse in a very different way than Batman’s voice ever was. “You’ll pay for this, Luthor. I swear it,” he snarled.

“Br--Batman,” said Superman, one hand on his arm, pulling him back. “Nightwing.”

It was possibly the only thing he could have said to break the standoff. The Dark Knight whirled away from Luthor and went to the ring, where Nightwing had fallen to his knees. Pop Haly was retreating up the ramp and out of the arena, his shoulders slumped.

Superman and Batman climbed into the ring and went to either side of Nightwing. Batman knelt and whispered something in Nightwing’s ear, and Nightwing nodded. Superman and Batman helped him to his feet.

The crowd’s confusion gave way to applause as Nightwing stood before them, supported by his mentors. It wasn’t ecstatic applause; it was warm and loving and sad. “We will miss you!” called out someone in the audience who read dirt sheets, and soon the chant rolled across the crowd like surf, a bittersweet benediction that continued as the three of them made their way up the ramp.

At the top of the ramp Bruce started to turn Dick back around, to face back into the arena. Clark heard Dick sob, once. “I can’t--” 

But Bruce turned him back to look at the people waving, cheering, chanting. He kissed the side of Dick’s head and said in a voice that barely carried over the crowd to Clark’s ears: “Say goodbye to your people, champion.”

* * *

Mercy Graves already had two police officers by her side when the three of them rounded the corner. “Mr….Wayne?” said one of them, an eyebrow raised. “May we have your real name, sir?”

“You can’t be serious,” said Clark.

“Mr. Wayne just assaulted his employer,” said Mercy. “I think you’ll find the police are not likely to get fantasy and reality mixed up when it comes to what legally constitutes assault and battery.”

“Stop this nonsense,” snapped Lex Luthor, entering at a brisk walk. His eye was already swelling, blackened and bruised. “I won’t be pressing charges.”

Mercy looked more surprised than Clark had ever seen her. “You won’t, sir?”

“Let’s be honest,” said Luthor. “I had it coming. I knew the risks. I decided to do it anyway.” He looked at Dick Grayson, red-eyed and sweat-soaked. “You’ll never believe me, son, but I’m truly sorry it had to come to this. You were a good champion, it was nothing personal, and I wish you the best of luck in all your future endeavours.” A razor-thin smile. “Now clean out your locker.”

Dick took two deep breaths, met Clark’s eyes, and left the room.

“As for you,” Luthor said, moving to stand in front of Bruce. “Get out of my sight before I change my mind and have you thrown in jail. I’ll figure out what to do with you tomorrow.”

* * *

They drove from Gotham to Metropolis that night, Bruce’s foot heavy on the gas of his rented Maserati, his eyes far away. Clark clamped his mouth shut and said nothing for a long time, and the silence stretched out as the city lights flickered past.

“So where do we go?” he finally burst out. “Japan? Mexico? Will Lord take us back?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Bruce said.

Clark gaped at him. “You’re considering staying on and _working with him?_ After this?” He hit the dashboard with his fist; Bruce’s eyes stayed on the road and he didn’t flinch. “You’re willing to swallow your pride and keep working for the guy who did that to Dick, just because he’s top dog--Bruce, I would never have believed that of you. _Ever!”_

“Have you gotten all that fury out of your system now?” said Bruce. “Because being angry is great and all, but it’s not going to help us.”

“Help us?”

Bruce turned and smiled at Clark, and the city lights sparked across his face and in his eyes. “Luthor had a chance to balance the scales just a little for what happened to John and Mary Grayson, and he failed. He humiliated Dick Grayson. He betrayed the memory of the Graysons, and he violated the sanctity of the ring.” 

His voice wavered for a moment and he swallowed hard. When he spoke again it was flat and controlled, inexorable. 

“It will take time, and patience, and a lot of luck. But I swear to you, Clark, that we will take Lex Luthor down.”


	65. New Angles and Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Gotham Screwjob, everyone picks up the pieces and starts to make plans.

_ “‘History’ is mostly quartered to the realm of wrestler reminiscence, which would be factually problematic on its own, but couple that with the industry’s desire to mythologize everything and to keep up the facade of fakery that undergirds the sport and you end up with a lot of facts that contradict each other. --David Shoemaker, “The Squared Circle” _

The championship belt gleamed on Jean-Paul Valley’s shoulder as he addressed the locker room. Very few wrestlers were meeting his eyes. Some were missing entirely: Tim Drake, for example, was nowhere to be found. Clark could feel the mood of the locker room as if it were a smoke in the air, a drifting cloud of pain and sullenness.

The new champion looked like he could see it too. He shifted his feet and cleared his throat.

“Let me start by saying I have nothing but respect for Dick Grayson. He was an excellent champion and he led this locker room well. I’m not the leader he was. I’m not even going to pretend I am.” He looked down at his feet. “Most of you won’t believe me--I don’t expect you to, and it doesn’t really matter--but I had no idea what was going to happen last night. Would I have participated if I had known?” He paused, and Clark saw his jaw work briefly. “I honestly don’t know. The risks were too high to allow the title to stay in Grayson’s hands. But the way it went down…” He shook his head, looking at the belt. “I understand that it will leave a bad taste in the mouth for most of you. I understand that many of you will hold it against me. I do ask you to remember--” He paused and for a moment there was pain in his eyes, “--that I’ve held this title twice now, and both times my worthiness to hold it has remained in question.”

He stopped and drew a long breath. No one in the room spoke. The mood did not seem to be noticeably softer.

Jean-Paul looked up again. “The last time I held this title I made some terrible mistakes. I cannot promise you that I won’t make mistakes this time either. But last time I tried to do it alone. I felt I had to I had to carry the responsibility for the whole company on my own. I know better now.” He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of people who were willing to look at him. “In front of the cameras, Azrael will keep trying to redeem himself. And here, backstage, I will keep doing the same,” he said.

* * *

Lex Luthor sat at his desk, Mercy Graves behind him. He was tapping on his phone, deliberately making Clark and Bruce, standing in front of his desk, wait. Like truant children waiting for a reprimand, Clark thought, and gritted his teeth on his anger. Next to him, Bruce was as still and composed as if he were carved of ice. 

“So,” Luthor eventually said, putting his phone down, “are you quitting?”

“No,” said Bruce, clear and concise.

Luthor looked at Clark, his eyebrows raised. Clark shook his head, not trusting his voice.

Smirking, Lex held up a hand. Behind him, Mercy rolled her eyes, then reached into her bag and extracted a twenty-dollar bill. She put it in his hand, and he snapped it between his fingers once before slipping it into his own pocket. “See, Mercy?” Luthor said. “They won’t leave the biggest game in town. Not that it’s about the money for you at least, is it, Bruce?” he said with a calculating look that suddenly made Clark’s blood run cold.

“It’s never been about the money,” Bruce said.

“Right, right, it’s about the spectacle and the story, honor and brotherhood and all that,” Lex said, waving his hand.

Clark heard Bruce chuckle, very softly. “Be as dismissive as you like, Luthor, but I know underneath it all you understand. If it were just about money you wouldn’t have panicked at the idea of losing the title.”

For the first time, Luthor looked angry. “My decision was based sheerly on business sense, Wayne.”

“Tell us Jean-Paul didn’t know what was going to happen,” said Clark.

Luthor looked at him as if he’d forgotten Clark was in the room at all. “Why should I even bother? Would you believe me?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Clark said, locking eyes with him. “It doesn’t even matter if he did or not. You’re going to tell us he didn’t know, and you’re going to tell _everyone_ he didn’t know. Because otherwise you’ve just created the weakest champion in the history of the DCW--and probably destroyed Jean-Paul’s career.”

“You’ll have to make a storyline of it, you know,” Bruce said. “For his sake and the sake of the company’s, he’s got to defy you and you’ve got to try to crush him.”

Luthor’s sharp green eyes narrowed. “Don’t presume to lecture me on storylines, Wayne. I’ll write whatever angles I please.” A smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth. “You love your stories so much. You have to admit that this thing with Grayson will make a great story, won’t it? You couldn’t have scripted it better if you’d tried.”

“It’s a great story,” Bruce said, his voice low and level, “But it’s a great story for you. Not for Dick.”

“Oh, stop your moaning,” scoffed Luthor. “He’s young and talented, he’ll do fine. And now that we’re all on the same page about young Dick Grayson and your continued presence in the company, get out of my office.” Clark shot Bruce a glance and they turned to leave. “Oh, by the way,” Luthor’s voice stopped them at the door. “Valley truly didn’t know what was going to happen. But if he did know, he would have gone through with it, because he knew I was right. He knew that with something as important as the championship, you have to err on the side of caution.”

Clark turned around to look at him then; Bruce stayed with his hand on the door, looking straight ahead. “Your _error,_ Luthor, was that you didn’t trust Dick Grayson,” said Clark. “That you weren’t capable of it. And people will remember that.”

* * *

_“How dare you,”_ Azrael seethed at Luthor, standing in the middle of the ring, his heavyweight title over one shoulder. The Metropolis audience had growled and muttered as he come out to the ring: the message boards and Reddit had been busy overnight, and rumors about the screwjob had spread like wildfire. Some were accurate. Most were not. “How _dare_ you use me as a tool to rob Nightwing of his title?”

Luthor drew himself up to his full height. “I _dared_ because it was the right thing to do,” he snarled. “If I had told you my plans, would you have agreed to them?”

_“Never.”_

Luthor shrugged. “You never were the brightest,” he said, “But you still did the job, so--”

His voice cut off in a hilariously dramatic squeak as Azrael put his hands around his throat. The crowd’s uncertainty melted into cheers of encouragement.

“Listen to me carefully, Luthor,” snarled Azrael. “I am not your lackey. This title is more than a piece of metal and leather to me. It stands for my very _honor_ , and I am tired of having that honor sullied.” 

He released Luthor, who staggered backwards in shock, falling against the ropes. Azrael lifted the championship high in the air and lifted his voice into a clarion call:

“I declare an open challenge for the heavyweight title!” The crowd burst into applause as he went on, “Each and every week, if someone feels they have what it takes to defeat me, I invite you to try. I _will_ prove myself worthy.”

“You can’t do that!” yelled Luthor. “This is _my_ show, and--”

“--this is _my_ title, is it not?” Azrael’s gaze was impassive. “If I want to risk it I will, to prove that I deserve to hold this.”

Luthor scrambled out of the ring, rubbing his throat. “We’ll just see about that,” he snarled. “You’ve made an enemy of the wrong man.”

And then Blue Beetle’s music hit and the camera caught Azrael’s smile as he turned to face his first challenger.

* * *

“Good fight,” Jean-Paul said to Ted Kord in the back later, holding out his hand. 

Ted Kord hesitated only a moment before taking it. “My first shot at the heavyweight title ever,” he said with a wry smile. “Even if it was only a ten-minute match, it was good to have it.”

“You looked _good_ out there, Ted, buddy,” said Booster Gold. It was true, Clark thought. Azrael had made Ted look great--taking bumps with the same intensity he had once shown in pulling off moves that made himself look good. “I wish I could take you up on that challenge,” Booster Gold went on, a wistful note in his voice. 

“Not until he’s gone up against every heel the evil Lex Luthor can throw at him, cackling all the while,” said Lex Luthor. “And then maybe the Dark Knight to boot.” He gave Jean-Paul a level look. “As long as you keep turning in performances like that one, the title is yours.”

“I liked that moment after Ted’s comeback when he almost pinned you,” Bruce said to Jean-Paul after Luthor left the room. “You looked convincingly desperate.”

“It wasn’t hard,” said Jean-Paul with a grim smile. “I just imagined what Grayson would think of me if I lost the title the very first time I put it on the line.”

* * *

“Does Luthor know?” Clark said later as they drove toward the apartment, the lights of Metropolis sparkling around them.

“About our plans to take him down? I doubt it. ‘Keep your enemies closer’ only goes so far.”

“No, not about that.”

“That you and I are a couple? Probably. I don’t think he cares.”

“No, not about that either.”

Bruce looked amused. “For babyfaces, we’ve sure got a lot of secrets, don’t we? Which one are you referring to?”

“Does he know that you’re the real Bruce Wayne?”

“Oh, that.” Bruce frowned thoughtfully at the road. “I’ve covered my tracks pretty well, but I’m sure he suspects. I don’t think he could prove anything, but I probably should batten down the hatches a bit. It’ll be a while until we can make any kind of overt move, and I wouldn’t want to make him suspicious.” He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Thank God none of the kids is likely to tell him.”

“Especially after this,” Clark said. He thought for a while. “We should come up with some angle we can really throw our energy into. Something that will make it look like we’re moving on with life.”

“Why Clark,” said Bruce. “How very _devious_ of you.”

“You’ve already thought of that, haven’t you?”

Bruce’s smile was smug and delighted. “I’ve had a few ideas. I’m going to let them simmer a little longer and then I’ll run them by you.” The smile slipped away. “You...might not like some of them.”

“Do they involve us working together?”

Bruce made an insulted snorting noise.

“Then I won’t mind them.”

* * *

_“Now boarding all rows for flight 306 to San Francisco,”_ intoned the voice over the speaker.

“I talked to Tim and Barbara,” said Dick. His duffle bag was slung over his shoulder. He hadn’t checked in any luggage. “I told them to show back up for work. Luthor will turn a blind eye to it for a little while, but I don’t want them to suffer because of me.”

“We’ll keep an eye on them,” said Bruce.

“I know you will.” Dick looked at both of them, biting his lip. “You’ll come by and see me when you’re in the area?” He laughed at Clark’s reproachful look, then sobered. “Look, I know I’ve made some mistakes, and I appreciate that you guys haven’t lectured me about them. I made some bad choices. But they were my choices to make, and I think this path is the right one for me. You guys staying here--I know I’ve made things harder for you, and I regret that more than I can say.” He shook his head. “I just didn’t think he’d go so far as to--” He broke off and sighed. “Whatever. Just don’t-- please don’t put your own jobs at risk because of me.” He looked at Bruce, who was giving a gate information sign intense scrutiny. “Bruce? Promise me you won’t try to get revenge or something.”

Bruce scoffed. “‘Revenge’? What kind of melodrama do you think this is?” When Dick continued to give him a level look he put his hands on Dick’s shoulders and said with mock-gravity: “Dick Grayson, I promise you that we will not try to get revenge against Lex Luthor.”

Dick gave him a dubious look, but hugged him tightly, then threw his arms around Clark. “Take care, you two.”

Bruce waited until Dick had disappeared down the boarding gate before he said, “We sure as hell are not going to _try_ to get revenge on Luthor.”

“Damn straight,” said Clark.


	66. Buried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In front of the cameras, Batman plots. Behind the scenes, Bruce Wayne does the same.

_ It was another of wrestling’s unwritten rules that when someone makes a mistake, nobody ever tells him about it. They just tell everybody else instead. It’s a confusing concept. --Chris Jericho _

The Justice League stood triumphant in the ring at the end of the four-man tag team match: Superman, Batman, Green Lantern and Flash had all fought well against the representatives of the Injustice League, with Aquaman and Wonder Woman guarding against outside interference. Lex Luthor had just been handed another defeat “We couldn’t have done it without you!” Superman yelled to Batman, sweeping him up into a hug, and they all hoisted their chief strategist onto their shoulders as they celebrated.

Almost no one thought anything of it at the time, but later people looked back and noticed the close-up in which Batman looked down at his team members and at Superman specifically, his face opaque and unreadable.

Then Superman beamed up at him, and the corners of Batman’s mouth softened into the closest he usually got to a true smile once more, and the moment was past.

* * *

Metamorpho limped backstage, assisted by his friends Black Lightning, Geo-Force, Looker and Halo: the latest wrestler to accept Azrael’s open challenge and fail. It had been a good fight, but Azrael had pinned him clean in the middle of the ring. There were some enthusiastic whistles when he appeared on the Jumbotron: Metamorpho was a popular wrestler despite the fact that he had never won a title and his career in the DCW was mainly limited to losing to other wrestlers. He had come to wryly refer to himself as “Rex Mason, jobber to the stars.”

“Man,” said Metamorpho, stopping conveniently in front of the camera and rubbing his head, “We’re never getting anywhere, are we? I thought maybe, this time--but it’s no good.”

“Don’t say that,” said Halo, patting him on the arm. “It was a good fight.”

“I’ll try next week,” said Black Lightning. “One of us will get that break eventually. We’re good, we’re hungry, and we’re--”

“-- _Pathetically_ underfunded,” drawled a familiar voice. The arena noise peaked in delight as Billionaire Brucie, clad in a sleek tuxedo with a red rose in the lapel, strolled into range of the camera. “You have a certain…” He raised a skeptical eyebrow and took them in. “...raw ability, there’s no denying, but you’ll never get _anywhere_ without some sponsorship. Money, dear children, not talent but money makes the world go round.”

The audience noises had subsided from cheers into muttering as many of them started to remember why Billionaire Brucie was one of the most hated heels in the business; watching on the monitors backstage, Clark saw a flicker of glee in Bruce’s eyes for a moment as his heat started to build.

“Are you offering?” Metamorpho asked with a weary sneer.

“As a matter of fact,” said Bruce, “I just might be.”

* * *

“It’s brilliant,” said Tim. 

“I know,” said Bruce, not looking away from where Steph and Kara were sparring in his practice ring. Alfred hovered nearby with water bottles, towels, and protein bars. 

“It’s _brilliant,_ ” Time repeated with more fervor. He started to pace, hitting his fist into his hand now and then for emphasis. “It’s basically an open secret that Batman and Billionaire Brucie are one and the same--I mean, it’s never been confirmed, but anyone paying attention at all over the years will have caught the resemblance, not to mention the two have the same moveset. So basically now Batman is leading the Justice League--uh, co-leading,” he said with a quick, apologetic glance at Clark, who shrugged and smiled. “And Billionaire Brucie is funding the Outsiders, both of which are stables fighting against Lex Luthor’s dominion. And _at the same time_ the serious smarks, the people who read the dirt sheets and gossip rags, know that the real guy behind the two characters is legit furious at Lex Luthor for what happened to Dick Grayson.”

“Man, that shit’s too complicated for me,” complained Jason Todd, emerging without warning from the stairway. He tended to somehow sense when there was a training session at the Manor and materialize there, insisting that no one had told him and certainly no one had invited him. “Give me mixed martial arts anyday, we don’t bother with all this bullsh--” He broke off at Alfred’s reproachful glance and started again, “--all this b.s. multi-layered storytelling and ironic reversals and wink-wink nudge-nudge. In MMA, we punch people until they fall down.”

“It’s not _that_ simple,” said Tim.

“You’re right. Sometimes we kick them. Keeps things fresh,” agreed Jason.

Bruce ignored both of them, raising his voice: “Kara, you need to listen when you drop your elbow.” Kara and Steph stopped in the middle of a hold and looked at him. “There should be one clear sound when your elbow hits the mat. If you hear two sounds--like a thump and an echo--you’re hitting it wrong.”

Kara’s face scrunched up as she contemplated that, and Steph released the hold and scrambled to her feet. “Let’s try it,” she said.

“Anyway,” said Jason, “You haven’t even gotten to the lowest layer of your delicious crap cake that’s wrestling--no one except us and maybe Luthor himself knows that “Bruce Wayne” is really _Bruce Wayne,_ the elusive heir of Gotham. You’re pretending to be someone pretending to be two people planning to take Luthor down, while actually planning to take Luthor down. That is some fucked-up shit, I approve.” He caught Alfred’s eye again and cleared his throat, reddening slightly. “Sorry.”

“I thought you didn’t like all that soap-opera stuff,” Tim said.

Jason crossed his arms. “With Bruce, it’s _real._ That doesn’t count.”

“Everything’s real,” Bruce said absently, his eyes still on the women in the ring. “That’s better, Kara. Try it a few more times.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Wayne, sir,” chirped Kara, making Steph snicker.

“And Steph,” added Clark, “Remember to practice in-character. How would Spoiler move from one spot to another? If you do it when you practice, too, it’ll become even more second nature in the ring.”

“So I should be doing all the facial expressions and nonverbal stuff too, got it,” said Steph.

“It’s as important as the actual spots--maybe more so,” said Clark. “That’s how you’re going to get over--not because Stephanie Brown does a beautiful DDT, but because Spoiler looks like she’s having the time of her life doing it.”

“Like this?” Steph dropped Kara to the mat, then skipped over her prone body with a twirl, grinning. 

Clark applauded. “Perfect.” The women went through their moves, and Clark watched their motions match up and sync. The way Kara surreptitiously cradled Steph’s head when she dropped her into a DDT; the way Steph tapped her lightly on the shoulder to signal that she was about to do an arm drag. A whole language of feather-light, lightning-fast touches; an entire conversation woven with glances and fragments of words. So natural, so intimate.

“I know,” said Bruce beside him, and Clark didn’t even need to look to know what his expression was. “I know.”

“So,” said Jason, sidling up to them. “I hear rumors.”

“Do you now,” said Bruce.

“I hear things have been bad since Dick left, for some of the kids especially.”

Clark made a noncommittal noise.

“Steph hasn’t won a match in months,” Jason said. “And don’t give me that bull about how winning and losing don’t matter compared to stories. She’s been jobbing, brought out to lose pointless matches. She’s too good for that. Hell, Tim and Kon haven’t even been on television at _all_ recently. They’re just sitting around in catering, hoping they’ll get a match that never comes. They’re getting buried, Bruce! What are you going to do about it?”

“Bide my time,” Bruce said. “Plan. Put things into place.”

“It’s taking too long,” growled Jason. 

“You’re too impatient,” said Bruce.

“Damn straight,” said Jason. He raised his voice. “Alf! I’m gonna go raid the fridge, okay?” He took the stairs two at a time, followed by Tim.

“He misses wrestling,” Bruce said when he was gone. “It rips him up to be away from it, no matter how much he insists he’s happier doing MMA.”

“Does he hope if Lex is gone he can come back to the DCW?” Clark asked.

“I’m not sure that’s crossed his mind, to be honest,” said Bruce. “He’s more upset about Tim and Steph getting buried.”

“He’s a good kid,” said Clark. 

“He’s a good kid,” Bruce agreed. “He deserves better. They all do. And someday, somehow, we’re going to make sure they get it.”

* * *

“Batman, what are you talking about?” Red Robin stared at his mentor. Following wrestling narrative convention, they both were oddly oblivious to the fact that a camera was filming their surreptitious backstage conversation and broadcasting it on the Jumbotron for all to see. “I can’t believe you just said that,” he went on. “Are you really telling me you don’t trust _Superman?_ ”

“I didn’t say that,” Batman said quickly. “I just… When Nightwing lost, Superman tried to stop me when I went after Lex. He tried to _stop me._ I’ve watched it over and over again, and I don’t understand.”

Red Robin threw up his hands. “Maybe he didn’t want you to risk _losing your job?_ ”

The Dark Knight looked through Red Robin as if he didn’t see him. “You don’t understand,” he said. “Don’t forget, he’s been controlled in the past. What if Luthor could get to him again? What if he could be turned against me? If I can’t trust Superman to have my back when it really matters…” He broke off, shaking his head. “Can I really trust any of the League? They say they’re on my side, but when it comes right down to it, we’re all alone against the world.”

“That’s not true,” said Red Robin. “You’re sounding…”

“Cautious?”

“Paranoid.”

Batman glared at him. “I’m just asking you to scout Superboy and Supergirl. Find out what techniques they’re weak against, what the best way to defeat them would be if we were up against them. That’s just sound strategy.”

“You’re asking me to use my _friendship_ to gather information on how to beat my _friends,_ ” Tim snapped. “You’re asking me to _spy_ on them.”

“What’s the problem?” Batman sounded honestly curious. “You’re always so committed to doing research, to understanding--”

“This isn’t _research,_ Batman! If I’m put into a match against Kon, I’ll do what I can to beat him, yes. But this thing you want me to do, sneaking around and tricking people into admitting their weaknesses--that’s exploiting their friendship and betraying their trust.” Red Robin crossed his arms. “I can’t believe you’d do that to your friends. To _Superman._ ”

Batman gazed at him for a long moment. Then he smiled, but it seemed forced. “All right, Red Robin. You’ve made your point. You’re right, it was wrong of me to ask you. Don’t worry about it.”

Red Robin relaxed a little. “I’m glad,” he said with a smile, and left camera range.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of The Dark Knight’s cowled face, stern and distant under the mask. 

“I’ll just have to do all the work myself, I guess,” he said in a low voice.


	67. Foreshadowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Knight's paranoia starts to be a factor, though his tag team partner suspects nothing.

_ I want to thank you people. Thank you very much for hating me. I love you all. --Bobby Heenan _

“Take care of yourself,” said Clark, shaking Pop Haly’s hand.

Haly looked down at Clark’s hand clasping his, and his shoulders slumped. “You’re the only person who’ll see me off,” he said, caught between a question and a statement. He hadn’t refereed a match since the Screwjob, but today was truly his last official day with the DCW.

“I’m sorry,” said Clark.

“I’ve got a family, Clark,” Haly said. “Three kids. Almost college age.”

“I know,” said Clark, and he liked to think he was a good person, but he couldn’t resist adding: “And I’m sure they’ll be taken care of from now on.”

Haly met his eyes and there was both shame and defiance in them. “They will, as a matter of fact. I made my deal with the devil, and I’ll just have to learn to live with that.”

“Good luck,” said Clark, but only after he was sure that he could deliver it sincerely, without sarcasm.

* * *

“So,” said Batman to Flash, watching him scarf down a sandwich in catering. “What’s it like to have such a fast metabolism?”

By now the DCW audiences were inured to the strangeness of seeing a man in a cape and cowl sitting down to eat a meal--and to the fact that none of the characters seemed to notice there was a camera trained on them.

“Oh, it’s pretty cool,” said Flash, swallowing the last bite. “I can eat a lot and not gain weight. Being so fast can be a problem sometimes in the ring, though.”

“Oh?” Batman looked curious. “I wouldn’t have thought your speed would ever be a disadvantage.”

“Yeah, sometimes I get thinking too fast, and it’s easy to get distracted. Sudden loud noises can really throw me off, knock me completely out of my game. I’ve gotten pretty good at compensating, though.” Flash smiled and grabbed the sandwich in front of Batman. “If you’re not going to eat this, bro…”

“Go ahead,” said Batman, clearly lost in thought. “I’m not hungry.”

* * *

“I’ve noticed you always work out on this side of the gym,” Batman said as he watched Green Lantern doing his bench press. As before, the apparently-hidden camera went unremarked-on by either of them. “Would it be prying to ask why?”

“It’s a stupid reason,” said Green Lantern, grimacing as he lifted his set of weights.

“Being able to admit your weakness is the beginning of strength,” Batman said.

“Well, it’s that the walls on the other side of the gym are yellow,” Green Lantern said. He cleared his throat “look, I’ve got...really bad associations with the color yellow. Childhood trauma. I’d rather not go into it.”

Batman nodded. “I understand.”

“It always makes fighting Sinestro a problem, what with that damn yellow costume he always wears. But I’ve fought through it before, and I’ll do it again.” Green Lantern let the weights drop and stood up, wiping his brow above the mask. “Told you it was stupid.”

“It’s not,” Batman said. 

Green Lantern smiled. “Thanks for spotting for me, Bats. It’s good to have someone I can trust helping me out.” He strolled out of the gym, whistling, and the camera watched him go before turning back to Batman and lingering on his thoughtful gaze.

* * *

“Why do I always wear these bracelets?” Wonder Woman lifted her arms, and the camera closed in on the heavy gleaming silver bands around her wrists. “They were a gift from my mother, before I left Paradise Island to come wrestle.” She smiled wistfully down at them. “They’re a symbol of her love and support. I always feel like they give me an edge in combat, and I’ve never once wrestled without them.”

The camera pulled back, and the crowd noise swelled into a sullen, angry muttering as her questioner was revealed: not The Dark Knight, but Billionaire Brucie.

“I didn’t know you were so interested in jewelry, Mr. Wayne,” Diana said with a smile.

“Oh, I find it _fascinating,_ ” said Billionaire Brucie. “Sparkly things always are.”

* * *

“Introducing the World’s Finest Tag team of Superman--”

Superman came around the corner to thunderous applause and whistling.

“--and the Dark Knight!”

The crowd’s enthusiasm dissipated like a drop of ink in a gallon of water, replaced by hissing murmurs of discontent. Superman stopped on the ramp and tilted his head, frowning. Then he turned to the Dark Knight and lifted his hands in a puzzled gesture: _What’s going on here?_

The Dark Knight shrugged and continued his way to the ring, leaving Superman to trail behind, still looking baffled.

* * *

“Adding Billionaire Brucie to the mix was genius,” Lex Luthor said without looking up from his phone as people buzzed around them, preparing for the next match. “Everyone sort of knows that Brucie and the Dark Knight are the same person, they feel like they’re privy to a secret, they’re putting the pieces together and realizing he’s up to no good in either of his forms. They know what’s coming and they’re furious about it.” He glanced up and winked cheerfully at Bruce and Clark. “This feud had better deliver.”

“Oh, it will,” said Bruce. “Believe me.”

“He sure knows how to make a story tick,” Bruce said later, when they were back in their hotel room and well away from Luthor. “And he knows how to get the crowd into it. He’s almost as brilliant as I am.”

Clark almost snorted, then realized Bruce wasn’t joking--of course he wasn’t, Bruce never bothered with false modesty. “He’s great with the stories, but not so much with the talent. How someone so bright can be so blind to how to promote young stars--”

“Promoters are all scum,” Bruce said, tossing his gym bag onto the bed with relish.

Clark followed suit. “And here you are, aspiring to be one.”

“But I’ll be the best and most brilliant scum on the planet,” Bruce said. “And I’ll have you to deal with the talent; you’re better at that than I am.”

“Hm,” Clark said thoughtfully. “That might be a problem down the road, if we disagree on things. I’ll take the wrestlers’ side if they’re right, you know.”

“I’m counting on it,” Bruce said. He finished making the meticulous adjustments to the room that he always did--the chairs had to be at the right angles, his phone had to be plugged in, the curtains closed so tightly no light would get in--and took Clark’s shoulders in his hands. “Because when we get along we’re good, but when we’re in conflict--well, then we’re _great._ ”

Clark kissed him lightly. “I just wish you didn’t have to turn heel to get in an angle with me.”

Bruce laughed. “Only you would think turning heel is a fate worse than death, Clark. You do know most of us love it?”

“I know, I know--the freedom to speak your mind, to relax and not be a paragon of virtue, blah blah blah, I know the spiel,” Clark said.

Bruce scowled, though not at Clark. “I don’t think the audience will even let me turn heel at this point. I’ll end up some kind of tweener.” He lifted his lip, his disdain for fuzzy gray morality clear, then shrugged. “I’m still a little surprised you’re willing to start up a feud with me,” he said.

“Bruce.” Clark took Bruce’s hands in his and kissed them. “It’s been wonderful being tag champion with you. But to be in the ring again with you, that’s--” His words dried up and he waved his hands aimlessly, his fingers still entwined with Bruce’s so they moved together. “That’s...something else.” _Something intimate. Something I share with only you._

Bruce interlocked his fingers more tightly with Clark’s and stepped back to push against him as if starting a match, feeling out the opponent in the traditional test of strength. Push-pull, tug-retreat-advance. Clark braced his knees and swayed against him: almost a fight, almost a dance. Entirely their own. “That’s _good,”_ Bruce said with relish. “That’s what I want, the give and take, the rise and fall. The story we weave. You have _no idea_ how much I’ve missed actually being up against you, touching you in the ring and feeling your body against mine as we make the crowd scream--”

Clark cleared his throat. “You’re going to make it hard to concentrate when we finally do get to fight.”

“I’ll take that risk,” Bruce chuckled, giving way before Clark so they danced backwards across the hotel room. “It’s been too long since it’s been just the two of us in the ring together,” he went on. “I’ve gotten tired of sharing you. If you knew how I suffered every time Snart did that gorgeous sunset flip and ended up with his head between your thighs and you pinned and helpless in his grasp… I just stand there on the turnbuckle and think ‘That should be me. That should be me he’s pretending to suffer for.’”

Clark was ferociously glad that years in the ring had made him mostly immune to blushing. Mostly. “How do you think I feel when Rory gets you in that rear naked choke, huh?”

“Oh come on,” Bruce scoffed. “It’s not even that sexy a move. You just wanted to say ‘rear naked,’ admit it.”

Clark shifted his weight and yanked Bruce toward him, spinning out of the way at the last second so Bruce landed on the bed, sending their luggage spilling everywhere. He sprawled dramatically, throwing his arms out: “You have undone me, O most pure of heart babyface! Take your terrible and long-anticipated vengeance upon me now!”

It may have been long-anticipated, but Clark did get Bruce to admit later (as they lay limp and sweating among scattered tube socks and t-shirts) that it may not have been _utterly_ terrible.

* * *

The crowd muttered uneasily as the Jumbotron cut to Superman, sitting outside the arena on a fire escape, gazing up at the stars. By now they knew how these backstage vignettes were going, but they had been hoping that maybe…

As Batman dropped from the shadows to sit down next to Superman, the audience took a growling breath, almost as one. He _wouldn’t--_

“What are you thinking about?” Batman asked, his voice just loud enough to get picked up by the microphones.

Superman chuckled weakly. “It’s nothing.”

Batman waited.

Superman sighed. “You remember all that time I spent under Brainiac’s control?”

Batman nodded.

“He made me do terrible things. He made me attack you, even. I could tell what was happening, but it was all like a hideous dream that I couldn’t wake up from.” Superman shook his head, shuddering. “I still have nightmares about it sometimes, where I can’t stop myself from hurting people, I’m trapped in my body and I can only watch as--” He broke off and swallowed hard. “You used that green dust, that Kryptonite stuff, from my home planet to stop me.”

Batman was looking at him with his head tilted, his expression unreadable.

“You said you used it all up in that last match,” said Superman. “But I wish you hadn’t. I wish you still had some way you could make sure I never… I never did anything bad again.”

Batman sat very still for a moment. The crowd had gone equally quiet. Then he put his hand on Superman’s shoulder.

“Kal-El,” he said, “I swear to you that I will make sure no one else forces you to do anything bad again.”

Superman sighed and reached up to clasp Batman’s hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

Bruce’s other hand, where Superman couldn’t see it, briefly touched a pocket at his belt, as if to reassure himself of something.

But the camera caught the motion, and the audience did too.


	68. Heel Pay-per-View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman's notebook of secrets results in a disastrous pay-per-view for the Justice League.

_You'll be maybe lunging for the bad guy’s hip_  
No one anticipates the sunset flip  
The referee and your opponent will hold you there  
And we’re going to bring in a folding chair. --The Mountain Goats 

Superman was striding down the backstage corridors of the auditorium. The camera following him and broadcasting his wanderings out to the audience was a shakycam for “added authenticity.” He came into the locker room and saw a figure in a cowl jotting in a notebook, tongue stuck out very slightly in intense concentration. 

“Hey, Batman,” Superman said.

“Don’t call me that.” The Dark Knight’s response lacked snap and was clearly done by rote; he closed the notebook hastily.

“What are you working on?” Superman slung a friendly arm around the Dark Knight’s shoulders, not seeming to notice his discomfort. “Clever plans? Cunning strategies?”

“Uh...yeah,” said Batman.

“Well, it’s time to get out there and show that Tokyo crowd what the World’s Finest Tag Team is all about, buddy!”

“Right,” said Batman. He put the notebook in his locker and started to fiddle with the lock, but Superman grabbed him by the arm. “Wait!” Batman said, trying to get back to the locker.

“We’re late, bro!” Superman dragged him off over his protests.

The camera lingered on the locker after they were gone--just long enough to show a gloved hand opening the door and catch a whisper of mocking laughter.

* * *

The Kabuki-cho bar was crowded and noisy, and the three foreigners--huger than even the usual foreigners in the Tokyo red-light district--loomed above the servers and drew eyes to them.

“This ain’t the most inconspicuous meeting,” Guy Gardner said, slamming his beer mug down on the counter and wiping his mouth.

“This isn’t a ‘meeting,’” said Bruce. “It’s just a conversation. We’re old friends, right? Old friends can hang out and have a beer when their promotion happens to be touring nearby.” 

“How are things with that slimeball Luthor, anyway?” Guy said. “I hear morale’s pretty low over there.”

“It’s been better,” Clark said.

“I hear he’s taking his frustration with Dick and you guys out on the young talent. I hear some people there are pretty frustrated.”

“And I hear that your contract with New Nippon is up at the end of the year,” Bruce said.

Guy guffawed loudly enough that several businessmen turned to look at him. “So what if it is? I’ve got a good deal here. And I swore I’d never work for Luthor after he killed the JLI, and I meant it. I loved the JLI, man. Ain’t no way I’m ever working for the scum that ran it into the ground.”

Bruce flicked the barest look at Clark, but Clark didn’t even need the cue: he knew when the audience was getting too hot, when to cool the pace down a bit. He chuckled and said: “Oh man, JLI days. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t miss them, but… Remember the night in Philly where the humidity was too much and the sound system shorted out?”

Guy snorted. “And I sang Bruce’s theme song to get him to the ring and added all those obscene lyrics?” He snickered into his beer. “The boys were singing those for months.”

Clark let the conversation unreel from there, easily slipping into stories of life on the road, of scraping by, of wrestling with barbed wire bats for pocket change--if they were lucky and Max paid them at all.

Eventually, into a lull in the conversation as Guy stared into his beer, Clark said quietly, “And if Luthor were no longer running the DCW?”

Guy Gardner’s head snapped up like Clark had punched him. 

Then he smiled as if he were tasting blood.

* * *

The card for the big DCW pay-per-view had everyone buzzing, because it featured some of the greatest feuds of promotion, some of the biggest names of the Justice League and the Injustice League going head to head: Wonder Woman and Cheetah, Green Lantern and Sinestro, Flash and Captain Cold, Superman and Metallo, Batman and Joker. All of their angles had been red-hot recently and the crowd was desperate to see the heels get their comeuppance.

Instead, the night was an unmitigated disaster for the babyfaces.

* * *

“Dark Knight.” Lex Luthor’s suave voice interrupted Batman as he was taping his hands. “I have some important financial figures I need to go over with you.”

“Now?” Batman’s gravelly voice was incredulous. “I’m in the main event against Joker and you want to discuss finances?”

Luthor crossed his arms. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Dark Knight, DCW is a business. Now, I’m aware that you don’t know much about running a business, but discussions like these can’t always wait. Be in my office in ten.”

He left, and the camera zoomed in on Batman’s puzzled face before he shrugged and left the frame as well.

* * *

“Where are my bracelets?” Wonder Woman’s agitated voice reached the camera before she came bursting out of the locker room. _”Where are they?”_

“Hey, slow up there, Princess,” said Catwoman, putting out her hands to stop the distraught Amazon. “What’s the problem?”

“My match with Cheetah is next,” Wonder Woman said, “And I can’t find my bracelets. They’re...they’re important to me, okay? I’ve never wrestled without them, and I--” She broke off and ran her hands through her hair distractedly. In the distance Cheetah’s music hit, and Wonder Woman gasped. “Great Hera, there’s no time. I have to go!”

She ran off, leaving Catwoman looking after her with her brow furrowed. Then her eyes narrowed and the camera panned to follow her gaze, to where Poison Ivy peeked, smirking, around a corner, a glint of silver in her hand.

Catwoman shrugged, her facial expression shifting to a distinct _not my problem_ look as Wonder Woman’s music hit and the camera cut back to where the Amazon was coming down the ring, worry etched on her face and her eyes distracted, to where a gloating Cheetah was waited to defeat her.

* * *

“You didn’t have to turn off the monitor,” the Dark Knight said, clearly annoyed.

“I don’t want you to be distracted,” said Luthor. “Besides, we have to look at some very important graphs.” He fiddled with his phone and a graphic appeared on the screen: _T-Shirt Sales by Quarter._ “As you can see,” Luthor said, “Sales for the World’s Finest shirts are way up, but Green Lantern shirt sales are rather stagnant…”

* * *

When Green Lantern came to the ring, he stared down at the canvas in shock: the brilliant, eye-searing, neon yellow canvas.

“Luthor decided to try something new for this match!” Sinestro called mockingly from across the ring, and the camera zoomed in on Hal Jordan’s face as he struggled to look stoic and only looked traumatized instead.

He did his best, but after Sinestro pounding his face into the yellow mat for a few minutes the fight seemed to go out of him and he tapped out to Sinestro’s submission hold.

The crowd booed their disappointed hearts out.

* * *

The Jumbotron showed the Dark Knight frowning as the boos permeated even to Luthor’s office. “I think maybe I should go out there and check--”

Luthor stopped pacing and put a hand on his shoulder as he started to stand up. “But we’ve just reached the crux of this discussion, Dark Knight,” he said. “Let’s go over the ratings of last week’s show hour by hour, and I think you’ll see what I’m talking about…”

* * *

Flash’s match against Captain Cold lasted longer, but the results were the same. Someone in the audience (a very muscular someone, who looked distinctly like Heat Wave without his goggles) had brought an airhorn and kept setting it off at random intervals. They were banned, but security seemed in no hurry to throw the man out. Flash would flinch each time and look around in confusion, as if his train of thought had been violently interrupted. Each time, Captain Cold would get the upper hand. Eventually the distraction proved too much, and Snart got off his finishing move, leaving Flash helpless against his pin.

* * *

This time when the camera cut to Luthor’s office between matches, the audience knew what was coming and were ready. The desperate screams of the crowd, trying to alert Batman, to get him to leave, to do _something_ , shook the arena; backstage Barry looked at Clark and whistled under his breath. The people in the audience were desperate and furious and they knew that Superman’s match was next and Batman _had to do something, this was all his fault._

“Ready?” Barry said.

“I guess,” said Clark. Bruce was wrapping up the interim promo in Luthor’s office; it felt weird to be going out there without Bruce’s final fist-bump. Superman’s last minutes as Batman’s friend. He swallowed hard, feeling ridiculous. If anything, this meant he and Bruce would be more intimate than before, work closer than ever together. The friendship they were breaking wasn’t real.

But…

“Hey!” Clark turned just as his music hit to see Bruce jumping over a dolly, almost tripping in his attempt to get to Clark and tap fists.

* * *

Superman entered the arena a few minutes late, but he seemed in a particularly fine mood, beaming and kissing kids, waving to the crowd. The audience was agitated: more than once Clark heard someone calling out to him in desperation, trying to explain that Batman had betrayed them all. He smiled and cupped a hand to his ear, miming confusion, and headed to the ring.

Metallo waited for him in the middle of the ring, and a close-up revealed the sinister smile on his face. He patted a chain around his neck which disappeared out of sight into his steel-gray singlet. He seemed very confident that he could beat the Man of Steel, and the audience’s horrified suspicion lapped around Clark like an ocean as he smiled his way into the ring.

They put on a good match first, of course: the audience still deserved their money’s worth, after all. But ten minutes in, Metallo laughed, stepping away from Superman.

Superman’s eyes narrowed, looking at his opponent.

And on the Jumbotron, Batman’s frantic face appeared.

“Superman!” he yelled, “It’s a trap! He’s got--”

“Yes!” finished Metallo triumphantly, pulling down the straps of his singlet to reveal a green-stoned pendant on the end of the chain, one that seemed to glow with a baleful inner light. “Your greatest weakness! Kryptonite!”

Superman collapsed to his knees, holding his hands out in a pathetic attempt to shield himself. Laughing, Metallo unlooped the chain from around his neck and draped it around Superman’s. Then he grabbed Superman’s hair and started punching him, cruel blows that rocked the Man of Steel backwards. Clark tasted blood in his mouth at one glancing blow and let it trickle down his chin, hearing the crowd noise peak and crest at the sight. Later Clark would hear that security had to hold people back from jumping the barricade and charging in to save him as Metallo stood above him, laughing mockingly.

Then the audience’s screams of horror changed to shrieks of delight mixed with rage as Batman charged the ring, throwing himself at Metallo with all the fury of an avenging angel. The bell rang; Metallo had won by disqualification, outside interference. Metallo fell back before his onslaught, then retreated. From the top of the ramp, he turned back to sneer one last time, then disappeared.

A strange, hushed silence fell across the arena as Batman knelt by Superman’s side. Superman was lying with his face to the mat, occasional spasms still shaking his body. Batman ripped the pendant from his neck and hurled it across the ring, not even looking to see where it fell, his eyes fixed on his suffering teammate. Batman put a hand on his shoulder. “Kal-El,” he said, and the ring mic caught the break in his voice. “Oh, Kal-El. This is all my fault.”

A delighted cackle burst like static and Joker sauntered out onto the ramp. “Indeed it is, Batsy!” he crowed, holding up a small notebook.

_”How dare you!”_ howled Batman, jumping to his feet. 

“How dare _moi?”_ Joker put an elegant hand to his heart as if wounded. “It wasn’t _moi_ who was keeping detailed notes on how to defeat my very own teammates! My _friends_! It wasn’t _moi_ who was, under cover of friendly conversation, collecting information about their most intimate weaknesses!” He shook his finger, making a _tsk_ ing noise. “I don’t think you’re a very super friend at all, Batman. And I think there are some people who agree with me.”

Based on their muttering boos, a fair amount of the audience did. “Not enough. Suffer a little more,” Bruce whispered between his gritted teeth, and Superman attempted to rise to his feet, then fell back to the mat in agony.

The boos increased in volume.

“Come here and fight me!” Batman yelled as Superman managed to get to the edge of the ring and slip to the floor with a horrible _thud_.

“Oh, I don’t think I need to,” jeered Joker. “I think I’ve already beaten you. I think I’ve already _destroyed_ you and your precious League. I think I--”

“--Joker.” Luthor’s face appealed on the Jumbotron above him, looking down its nose at him. “Don’t you think you’re taking a little too much credit?”

“I stole the notebook!” Joker yelled, dancing in irritation. 

“On my orders,” Luthor noted.

“I don’t do _anything_ on anyone’s orders,” snarled Joker.

“Oh?” Luthor smiled. “Well, I still cut your paychecks, Joker, and if you want to continue receiving them, I _suggest_ you get down to the ring and fight the Dark Knight.”

“Well!” Joker tossed his head angrily. “I was just about to; there’s no need to get _bossy._ Boss-man.”

He pranced to the ring, stopping where Superman lay helpless and groaning on the floor outside it. Grinning up at Batman, he stopped to kick the Man of Steel, who curled up around the blow as if unable to ward it off.

Batman climbed to the turnbuckle and hurled himself out onto Joker, and the fight began.

It was a sloppy fight--a deliberate aesthetic choice by Napier and Bruce. “After all,” Bruce had said with a wink at Clark, “The Dark Knight’s going to be overwhelmed with guilt and remorse, he isn’t going to be able to pull off any technical moves.” All intellect was thrown aside in favor of a wild attack on the Joker, a flurry of kicks and blows that the Joker dodged and returned.

The audience murmured and muttered, unable to get into the match fully as they were uncertain exactly who they wanted to see suffer more, the villain or the betrayer. But that was the exact effect they’d been aiming for, Clark reminded himself as he dragged himself to his knees to lean heavily against the barricade, clearly too ill to continue. He felt small hands touching his shoulders, heard voices of concern. In the ring the tide was turning in favor of Joker. The Dark Knight dodged wrong and Joker lifted him up into a powerbomb--Clark could hear Bruce’s cry of anguish at the apex from outside the ring--and slammed him down, pinning him for the victory. The final heel win to cap off a heel sweep of the night.

“A risky choice,” Lex had said when Bruce pitched the idea to him. “It might be better to have at least Batman win.”

Bruce had frowned. “The Dark Knight needs to suffer for his perfidy,” he said. “But you know how to end things so everyone goes home at least satisfied.”

And indeed Luthor did. The triumphant Joker stood astride Batman’s body, brandishing his notebook. “The Justice League is finished!” he yelled. Heat Wave, goggles back in place, shoved Superman’s limp body into the ring, and Joker put one foot on his chest. “I’m the superman of this promotion now, you fools! Now, to finish the job!”

He lifted Superman up to deliver his finishing face-plant, the Last Laugh, but stopped as the Justice League, still limping or wincing but full of fury and fight, descended upon the ring to send the Joker scurrying, cowed and beaten, back up the ramp and away. 

Wonder Woman helped Superman rise to his feet and he stood with them, supported by his faithful friends, as the crowd cheered and the camera panned over their weary but determined faces. 

In the corner, the Dark Knight lay slumped and defeated, his shoulders shaking, ignored by his comrades as the camera cut to black.


	69. Do You Bleed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce plan out promos for their feud, hit a roadblock, and drive right over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in the promos is taken directly from _The Dark Knight_ and _Dawn of Justice._

__**Bobby Heenan, as tag team partners Shawn Michaels and Marty Jannetty shake hands:** See, one without the other isn't any good.  
 **[Michaels superkicks Jannetty]  
Heenan, instantly:** Oh, I knew he was going to do that. I just knew he was going to do that. He don't need Jannetty.

Beatriz da Costa threw her arms around Bruce and kissed him soundly on the cheek. Tora Olafsdotter stood back, but her smile for both Clark and Bruce was fond and friendly. In their civilian clothes, with their hair undyed, almost no one would have recognized them as Fire and Ice, the former women’s tag team champions of the JLI.

“Quite the pay-per-view you two put on last night,” Bea said, punching Bruce lightly on the shoulder. “Betrayal! Remorse! High drama!”

“Is the Dark Knight turning heel?” Tora asked as the waitress handed her a glass of white wine.

“Probably not fully,” Bruce said.

“Though God knows he’ll try,” Clark sighed.

“And let me guess,” said Bea with a smirk. “We’ll get to see a full-blown feud between him and Superman.” She winked at Clark.

“The message boards have been buzzing,” Tora said. “They’ve been begging for a feud between you two for years.”

“Friendship is _boring_ ,” Bea drawled, clearly quoting someone from one of those message boards. She lifted her glass of wine and tossed half of it down with relish.

“And here I thought it was magic,” Tora said with a sideways smile at Bea.

“Friendship may be magic,” Clark said, “But a feud is a story.”

“And one you get to work on together,” Bea said, nodding. “Oh, we get it. When we were still wrestling, the best times were when we were against each other, weren’t they?” She smiled at Tora. “Planning the matches, coming up with ways to pop the crowd more every time…”

“...Putting our lives in each other’s hands over and over,” Tora said, “Soaking up the cheers and boos together, like two sides of a coin, light and dark, day and night. Fire and Ice.”

“And speaking of ‘when we were wrestling,’” Bruce said, leaning forward.

Tora laughed. “What a smooth transition, Bruce! And Guy’s been in touch with me, so I have some idea of where you’re going with this, you clever, devious boy. But I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong pair of lady wrestlers.”

“We are D--O--N--E, done,” Bea said, waving her finger in the air to go with the spelled word. “No more days on the road, no more dealing with shitty promoters, no more fending off skeevy fans…”

“...no more wrestling,” said Bruce, and Clark watched the sadness flicker on their faces for a moment.

Tora ran a finger around the rim of her wine glass, looking pensive. “It’s not like we don’t miss it,” she said. “But we have nice stable lives now. Bea’s working at the post office, I’m teaching Norwegian here and there--”

“--What if we could offer you stable lives _and_ a chance to be part of the business?” Clark said.

Bea and Tora looked at each other for a long moment. Then they looked back at Clark.

“We’re listening,” said Bea.

* * *

Superman stood in the center of the ring, mic in hand, gazing sorrowfully at the crowd. He had an impressive shiner from the night before. 

“Last night Wonder Woman lost her match to Cheetah,” he said. “Last night Green Lantern lost his match to Sinestro. Last night Flash lost his match to Captain Cold. And I lost my match to Metallo.” With the name of each heel, the boos from the audience grew louder. “Last night the Justice League lost a lot,” Superman went on. “But I’m afraid the most important thing we lost was...our faith in our teammate.”

The audience sighed and murmured. Superman raised his voice, gesturing toward the back. “Dark Knight! We need to talk!”

There was a long silence. Then the Dark Knight’s moody music filled the arena and his cowled form appeared at the top of the ramp. He looked at Superman in the ring for a moment, then slowly stalked down the ramp to enter the ring and stand in front of him. There were a lot of boos, Clark noted. But there were also a fair amount of cheers, especially young male voices. Smarks loved their antiheroes.

Bruce would be so annoyed about that later, Clark thought, and had to repress a grin.

“So,” the Dark Knight said. “You’ve decided to summon me for your judgment? Like you’re some kind of god, chastising from on high?”

“I understand--” Superman started. His voice cracked and he had to start again. “Look, I understand why you kept plans for taking me down. I _asked_ you to. I don’t hold that against you.”

“That’s generous of you,” the Dark Knight sneered, though his eyes had flickered.

“But the others-- They didn’t ask for that. They deserved your trust. At the very least, they deserved to have you keep those plans somewhere a little more secure than a notebook in your locker, for God’s sake!”

There was a slight ripple of laughter from the audience at this lampshading of the more obviously ridiculous plot hole in the storyline. The laughter faded quickly, however, as Batman spoke again, his voice laced with contempt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was _illegal_ to think about how I’d win if I were ever booked to fight against my teammates. You're taking this far too personally, Kal. Believe me, it was a sheerly strategic decision. There was nothing personal about it.”

The cameras caught Superman’s throat working as he swallowed. “I’m afraid that the other members of the League have asked me to inform you that you are--”

“Oh, I’m _excommunicated,_ how terrible!” Batman yelled in a ringing voice. “As if I’d want to be part of your little clique of smug hypocrites!”

“The Justice League has been dissolved,” Superman said, and the words fell heavy and final into the suddenly-silent arena. “And as its last act, the members have asked me to challenge you to a match.” He looked at Batman, almost pleading. “Unless you apologize.”

_Please apologize,_ his expression begged as the cameras zoomed in for a loving close-up. _Apologize and everything can go back to what it was. It doesn’t have to end this way._

The crowd waited, hushed, for the Dark Knight’s response as he stood in the ring in front of Superman, clearly struggling with strong emotions.

Then he turned his back abruptly on his tag partner--his former tag partner, it appeared--and strode out of the arena without giving an answer.

* * *

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Bruce said, exasperated. “You call that a punch? Stop being so careful.”

“Geez, Bruce,” said Clark, “You want me to knock your teeth out or something?”

“Will it be a great moment? Then maybe.” Clark rolled his eyes. “Look,” Bruce said, “The whole point of working with someone you trust completely is that you can work really snug, because you both know that there won’t be any hard feelings if someone gets stiffed. I’ll post pictures of my bruises on Twitter and brag about how tough I am, you can respond saying there’s more where that came from, it’s gold.”

Clark shrugged and stepped forward, jabbing and throwing forearms at Bruce while Bruce blocked “desperately.” One of them connected with a solid _thunk_ against Bruce’s cheekbone, and Bruce said “Oof” with satisfaction.

“Happy?” said Clark.

“Rapturous,” Bruce said, leaning in to kiss him.

* * *

“Don’t stop _now_ , Superman.” Bruce grinned at him, his voice all grit and grime as he went on: “The night is young, and I have _so much_ planned for you.”

“Bruce…”

Bruce ignored Clark’s look as he lunged forward, catching him in a hip toss and throwing him to the floor of the practice ring. “It’s past time you learned what it means--to be a _man._ ”

Clark couldn’t help it, he started to giggle, covering his face with his hands.

Bruce glared down at him and said in pure Batman-voice, “Giggling is _unbecoming_ to a superhero.”

“I’m sorry,” wheezed Clark. “It’s just so--so--”

Bruce narrowed his eyes and clenched one fist dramatically in front of him. “I want you to remember, Kal--in your most _private moments,_ \--the feel of my hand on your throat.” Then he dropped his melodramatic stance and grinned just a touch sheepishly. “So you’re saying that might be a little much?”

“Maybe just a little,” Clark managed to gasp. “You might want to dial it back a little when we get to the actual match.”

“Okay, but I think we’ve got it perfectly calibrated for our promo this week,” said Bruce. “I’m a ball of seething resentment disguised as righteousness, you’ve got the whole more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger thing going on… It’s going to _crackle_. Run through the end again with me.” He brought up his shoulders and drew down his eyebrows into a scowl, dropping into Dark Knight persona like tossing on a cape as Clark threw back his shoulders and squared his jaw.

The Dark Knight pointed at Superman. “You’re arrogant and mad with power, and I’ll do anything in my power to stop you. _Anything,_ do you hear me?”

Superman shook his head. “I don’t believe you. I’m not even sure you believe yourself. We’re _friends_ , Batman.”

“I’m the Dark Knight,” Bruce rasped. “And I’m not sure we were ever friends. Don’t test my resolve or my determination, Kal.” His voice lowered even further into an ominous growl. “I don’t think you’d like the results.”

Without transition, the Dark Knight was Bruce again, suddenly all quicksilver intelligence and energy. “It’s great,” Bruce announced. “It’s totally in-character for both Superman and Batman, but it’ll make everyone see their characters and their relationship in a new light, leading up to our first fight in three weeks--oh, the buildup is going to be _so good._ ”

* * *

What do you _mean,_ our backstage promo didn’t get aired?” Bruce demanded of Mercy Graves a few days later. “It was a great promo!”

“There wasn’t time to put it on the air,” said Mercy. “We put it up on Youtube, though.”

“How can we build to our match without promos? It’s where all the rising action is!” Bruce looked like he wanted to punch something. “Damn it, tell Lex we need time in front of an audience, where we can talk to each other, make the psychology more clear--”

“ _Mr. Luthor_ says that if you’re the geniuses you claim to be, you’ll figure out something,” Mercy said, stone-faced.

“He’s burying our angle,” Bruce said when she left. “We _finally_ get an angle together, and that bastard is _burying_ it!”

“I suppose we couldn’t expect much else,” said Clark. “I mean, he’s got to suspect we don’t have his best interests at heart.”

“But...our angle!” Bruce looked almost comically forlorn. “I’ve waited so long to finally be in a feud with you, and now it’s just going to fizzle.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Clark said, looking at his phone. “Check this out.”

He held the phone up so Bruce could see the Youtube page for the promo the two of them had cut--specifically so Bruce could see the number of hits and likes.

When he pulled the phone down and could see Bruce’s face again, Bruce was smiling.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Bruce.

Clark felt a smile tugging at his mouth. “I had a feeling you would.”

* * *

The “SupermanVBatman” Youtube channel quickly became one of the most popular wrestling-related channels out there. The videos managed to be dramatic but have wry flashes of humor where it was clear the wrestlers involved were aware this was all slightly ridiculous. Batman and Superman sent each other mocking challenges and training montages, other wrestlers were interviewed about who their preferences were to win, even fan-made videos were sometimes featured. Without any mentioning on the DCW shows, spread only by word of mouth, the videos started racking up astonishing hit counts, and Clark watched Bruce’s rage morph into glee.

Superman and Batman didn’t interact at shows at all, but the crowds started chanting “Man of Steel!” at Batman’s matches with other wrestlers, often causing Batman to break off and rage at the sheep in the crowd who would bow down to a false god like Superman. Clark got more and more fanmail and supportive tweets looking forward to their match (and of course a fair number explaining to him why he was stupid and the Dark Knight totally rocked and was awesome. He smiled and forwarded those to Bruce, knowing it would annoy him).

Now the Dark Knight addressed the camera in one of his final videos before their match, his voice rasping and grim: “And so we meet on Sunday at last. As it was always meant to be--the two of us against each other in a battle for ultimate supremacy.” Batman lifted his chin in challenge. “Superman, you never understood how normal mortals feel. How they _live._ How they _suffer_. You, an alien from beyond the stars, untouchable. Inviolable.”

The eyes behind the cowl narrowed to merciless slits. “Do you bleed?” Batman snarled. 

He waited a beat, then finished:

_“You will.”_

Clark managed to not snort out loud until he made the sure the camera was turned off.


	70. Falling Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman and Batman kick off their feud together with a grueling match, while Bruce keeps working on his "side project."

_ Everything you do in the ring is real, only the outcome is predetermined. You can’t fake gravity. --Reno _

Clark dodged a discarded Red Bull can on the sidewalk and walked right into a patch of slush. Winter was refusing to quite give up its grip on Gotham right now. He grimaced at his wet shoe and almost missed Bruce pointing. 

“There it is,” Bruce said, and Clark looked up to see a fading sign: _Wildcat Gym._

The door squeaked loudly on opening and banged loudly on closing. Ted Grant’s voice could be heard even before they saw him: “Tom! I’m never putting you in a match until you learn to _not step back_ when you come up out of a roll! You show him again, Yolanda.” There was the sound of a body hitting a mat. “See? Even a pretty dame like Yolanda knows you gotta _step forward with your left foot!_ Why can’t you get it? I swear to God, sometimes I wonder if you’re really mine.”

Clark let Bruce take the lead as they came into the gym proper and saw the former Wildcat--barrel-chested, broken-nosed, and cauliflower-eared--leaning against a wall, glaring at a practice ring. In the ring were a young woman with long auburn hair tied back into a loose ponytail and a young man with dark hair and a darker glower. He lacked the broken nose and cauliflower ears, but otherwise was clearly related to the man currently abusing his in-ring skills.

Ted turned and saw Bruce, and his face lit up. “Bruce!” He came forward, limping slightly, and captured Bruce’s outstretched hand in both of his own, dragging him into a hug. “Tom, Yolanda, this is Bruce Smith, one of my best pupils from way back when. Though I see you’re going by ‘Bruce Wayne’ now,” he said to Bruce, “That’s a clever gimmick there.” His gaze went past Bruce to take in Clark. “Who’s your buddy?”

“This is Clark Kent,” said Bruce. 

“Ah,” said Ted. “Wow, you carry yourself really different out of the ring. I wouldn’t have even recognized you. Nice.” 

He held out his hand to Clark, and Clark felt himself freeze. Ted Grant--Wildcat--was one of his first favorite wrestlers from his childhood, and even though he’d met plenty of huge names now, around some of them he still felt himself turn back into an awkward, tongue-tied child. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pants leg, and shook hands with his hero.

“I’m a big fan of your work,” Clark said, then wanted to kick himself. Of all the banal-- “Your angle with the Psycho-Pirate was pure gold,” he said, rallying slightly. “That cage match gave me nightmares for weeks.”

Ted beamed. “Thanks, we was pretty proud of it ourselves.” He raised his voice back to the wrestlers in the ring. “Take a break, kids. Come back when you’re ready to lead with your goddamn left foot, Tom!”

Tom rolled his eyes as he left the ring, but was smiling and joking with Yolanda by the time the door closed behind them.

“So what brings two stars like you around to visit this dump?” Ted asked.

“You’re one of the best teachers in the business,” Bruce said.

Ted grinned widely. “True.”

“You trained Black Canary. You trained me, so I know how good you are. You’re better than this--running a tiny promotion with no funds.”

Ted shrugged. “I spent a lot of years working for Luthor’s pop. We got an understanding. I train kids, scout for good new talent. Sometimes I put in a good word for them with Luthor. In return, he lets me continue to operate. It’s a better deal than a lotta guys got.”

“It must be frustrating,” said Bruce. “Holding matches in warehouses for twenty people. What if you had a chance to set up in a state-of-the-art facility, working formally with the DCW? A combination school/promotion, where you train promising young wrestlers and teach them the business, get them ready for the big time?”

Ted leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’d say it sounded too good to be true.” He lifted his chin. “I’d say: _convince me.”_

* * *

The Dark Knight waited in the ring for Superman to arrive, microphone in hand. “What’s that?” he said, nodding toward the gray metal box Superman was carrying.

“You said you’d use any means necessary to defeat me,” Superman said. _”Any means._ But I don’t believe you.” He lifted the box above his head. “This is Kryptonite,” he announced. The audience gasped and murmured. “I brought it here because I know you won’t use it against me.” He placed the box on the announce table; the commentators shrank away from it as if it could hurt them as well. “I’m your _friend,_ Batman. We’ve been through so much together. I know you won’t resort to shortcuts to beat me. So let’s do this,” he said, getting in the ring.

The Dark Knight gave him a long look. Then he nodded and went to his corner.

The bell rang.

The sound of the crowd seemed to flow around the ring like water around an island; it felt like the two of them were alone together on it. Bruce kept his face grim, his mouth compressed in an angry line, but Clark could see the delight in every line of his body, feel the joy in his sinews as they came together for the first time in so long. 

They hadn’t bothered to carefully choreograph the match. They knew the story they were going to tell, so when they met in the middle of the ring and grappled, Clark knew Bruce was going to get the best of him and throw him to the other side of the ring without having planned it. Superman was tentative, unsure: he was going to let the Dark Knight get the upper hand for a while because his heart wasn’t in the fight. He tumbled head over heels into the turnbuckle and looked up at Bruce, knowing the camera would catch his look of dismay and doubt.

The Dark Knight came forward and kicked Superman in the head, and Clark could hear the crowd groan. Two more kicks, and then Bruce grabbed his hair and dragged him up, leaning close as he prepared to whip him into the far turnbuckle.

“Reverse,” Bruce muttered between his teeth, but Clark already knew that was what had to happen; in the middle of the ring he shifted his weight and pivoted so that it was the Dark Knight that ended up against the turnbuckle. Superman rushed forward and hit him with a forearm, and then another, but fell back quickly when the Dark Knight returned the blows.

They paused, staring at each other, letting the energy of the crowd build. Clark saw the flicker in Bruce’s eyes that meant he was about to move, and ducked out of the way just in time as a strike went by his head, close enough that he could feel the draft from it on his cheek like a kiss. The crowd gasped.

There was a flurry of moves--kicks and dodges that Clark was no longer fully consciously aware of, it was just a matter of moving to the next spot dictated by the flow of the combat, the rhythm of the match. He was on the defensive almost the entire first half of the match, taking moves and barely staggering up from them. After a running bulldog he dragged himself to a sitting position in the middle of the ring, clearly dazed and swaying, his eyes half-closed. He could feel Bruce pacing around him, staring at him. He glimpsed Bruce’s clenched fist out of the corner of his eye and knew that the Dark Knight’s jaw was tight as if he were steeling himself against compassion.

He knew what was coming next because they’d decided on it as the turning point of the match, so he was intellectually ready for it. But the stiff, contemptuous kick Bruce leveled at his back still jarred the breath from his body and made it easy to throw his hands up and contort his face in pain. The crowd’s outrage peaked and crested like a wave, and Superman dragged himself to his feet as if it were lifting him up almost despite himself.

He launched himself forward, desperately flailing at the Dark Knight, his face a mask of pain--and more, _disappointment_. He clipped Batman and sent him reeling, and from that point the momentum of the match slowly started to favor him. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose, and now _Batman’s_ fundamental lack of commitment to the fight started to become clear, as he fell back before Superman’s disjointed but fervent attacks. 

Superman hoisted the Dark Knight onto the turnbuckle in preparation for the hurricanrana they’d planned out. After that was when the Dark Knight would finally panic and scramble out of the ring toward the inevitable close of the match. Clark crawled up the turnbuckle after him, so they teetered there together--

And Clark felt Bruce’s hands slip on his sweat-slick skin and his footing give way. He barely had time to register Bruce’s quick and sincere obscenity before the two of them were toppling out of the ring toward the stairs together in freefall.

Time seemed to slow down, and Clark felt Bruce trying to twist his body to cushion Clark’s fall. Fury sparked in him and he managed to leverage himself so that he took the brunt of the impact instead, the edge of the steps biting across his shoulders. He howled aloud--because what’s the use of getting hurt if you don’t let the audience see it?--and came to his feet grimacing. A quick mental inventory, and he gave Bruce and the ref the quick look that meant _I’m okay, no major problems; continuing._

The Dark Knight was standing with his fists clenched, shaking all over. Clark was afraid he was hurt for a second, then caught a glimpse of his eyes just before Batman came forward and slapped him twice across the face, just barely pulling the blows. The audience seethed, and Clark didn’t have to feign his recoil before he came back at the Dark Knight for a quick flurry of punches. These were stiff but more properly pulled, and in the middle of the exchange Clark felt them fall back into sync, felt the flash of legit anger leave Bruce’s body.

They were running a little ahead of time because of the botched move, so they filled it up with some improvised work around the ring, one circuit in which kids could reach out to touch Superman and people wearing ironic t-shirts could give the Dark Knight the thumbs up. The Dark Knight started off with the advantage, but by the time they got back to the announce table he was reeling under Superman’s offense, clearly running out of energy and options. He staggered backwards, falling against the table, and the camera closed in on the sweat running down under his cowl, the exhausted gasps of his breath.

Superman closed in on Batman, and Batman stood at bay, backed against the announce table, his hands scrabbling at the monitors and papers as if he might crawl backwards onto the table.

His fingers fell upon the little metal box Superman had brought to the ring.

He yanked it in front of him, and the cover fell open, baleful green light spilling out as he held it between himself and Superman. Superman fell backwards, his eyes widening with shock and horror, and it was his turn to retreat, his back coming up hard against the ring apron. He grabbed the ropes and dragged himself into the ring, turning to confront the Dark Knight as he entered, still holding the box. 

Batman stared down at the box in his hand as if not sure how it got there. A look of something close to horror clenched his jaw, and with a sudden, jerky motion he hurled it away from himself, out of the ring. He and Superman looked at each other for a long moment, and then Superman staggered toward him--whether to confront, or attack, or embrace was unclear. Batman met him in the ring halfway with a superkick to the jaw and Superman went down in a heap, barely-conscious.

Batman hesitated for only a split-second before throwing himself on top of Superman and making the pin. The bell rang and the referee raised the Dark Knight’s hand.

Lying on the mat, his eyes closed in defeat, Clark noticed that the cheers for the Dark Knight were noticeably more subdued than they had been when the match had begun. 

Bruce was going to be in a good mood tonight.

* * *

“What the _hell_ was that stunt you pulled there?”

Clark blinked at Bruce, casting his mind back. His blankness only seemed to annoy Bruce more.

“With that botch onto the stairs. How _dare_ you try to take the impact. It was my error, I--”

“How dare I?” Clark almost laughed in disbelief. “How _dare_ I worry about the safety of my partner--my partner who, by the way, _broke his neck_ not too long ago? Like hell I’m letting you take the impact of that--and you know what? If you’ve got a problem with that, you can just find another person to feud with, Bruce.”

Bruce glared at him for a moment. Then he smiled, and the tension left his shoulders. “Well,” he said. “It looked great, didn’t it?”

“It sure did,” Clark agreed.

“Let me see the damage,” Bruce said.

Clark pulled off his t-shirt, turning his back so Bruce could see his shoulders, and Bruce hissed gently between his teeth.

“Impressive?” Clark said lightly.

“Very,” said Bruce. He waited a beat. “The welt is fairly spectacular as well.”

Clark snorted and snapped the t-shirt at him.

Bruce’s hand ghosted across his shoulder blades, following the mark the stairs had left. Then it traveled lower, to the small of Clark’s back. “You’re going to have a dramatic bruise here too. Where I kicked you.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Clark said.

There was a long silence as Bruce’s hands gently traced the marks of their combat; the signs of their trust.

“I’ll go get the ice,” said Bruce.

“You, me, and a lot of ice,” said Clark. “Sounds like a perfect post-match evening.”

* * *

“Everything’s going _great,_ ” Bruce said cheerfully over the steady tapping of computer keys a few hours later.

“You mean with the storyline?”

“That too,” said Bruce. “I’d say we’ve got all but the most hardcore smarks hating my guts. And have you _seen_ how many hits the latest video got? We’re on a roll. But no, I meant with the...side project.”

“‘The side project’ was how Bruce referred to a Byzantine system of grids, graphs, and time tables that Clark found frankly baffling. “It’s all very complicated,” was all Bruce said when Clark asked. “I’ve got an M.A. in economics. Just trust me, it’s coming together.”

Clark wasn’t sure when Bruce would have found time to get a master’s degree in anything when working as a wrestler--but on the other hand, somehow he didn’t doubt him. 

“It’s going to be snug work,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “Tricky stuff. Delicate. Dangerous. The timing’s got to be just right, or it’s going to be the most spectacular botch of our careers.”

“Well,” said Clark, “if it is, at least we’ll fall together.”


	71. Rematch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The current champion gets injured in the middle of Superman and Batman's feud. As their rematch looms, who will be the top contender for the newly-vacated title?

_ For wrestling fans, unreality is our passion but reality is our drug. --David Shoemaker _

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you in here today.” 

The audience off-screen booed as the camera pulled out from a pair of well-manicured hands to reveal Lex Luthor speaking to the Dark Knight, looming incongruously in Luthor’s well-apportioned office.

“Not really,” grated the Dark Knight. “I assume you’re here to suggest an alliance, now that I find myself at odds with Superman.”

Luthor arched an eyebrow. “The thought had occurred to me,” he said. “We appear to have goals in common. Enemies in common.”

Batman moved so fast the camera didn’t even catch it; in an instant he had Luthor by his lapels and up against the wall of his office. “Do not _ever_ presume that just because Superman and I don’t get along, you and I have _anything_ in common.”

Luthor looked at him without blinking until Batman released him. He brushed off his suit carefully, as if the Dark Knight’s gloves might have left smudges there. “I’m merely suggesting that we could help each other. I can’t fire either of you outright--I’d never hear the end of it.” His green eyes gleamed ironically; those who knew him well could see his wry humor at stating the truth within kayfabe. “But I believe I can count on you to make his life hell. In return--I believe you no longer have that chunk of Kryptonite, am I right?”

Batman’s hunched shoulders were answer enough.

“You can’t beat him without it, you know.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

“Oh come now,” said Luthor. When Batman didn’t respond, he shrugged. “Well, my colleague Metallo runs on Kryptonite. If you promise to beat Superman until he quits, I’ll book Metallo against Kal-El every match until then, until he’s so weak he won’t be able to stand against you.”

“If you’ve got Kryptonite, just send your minion to beat him, then,” growled the Dark Knight. “If you’ve got him, you don’t need me.”

“How wrong you are, my friend,” Luthor grinned, ignoring how Batman’s hands clenched at the familiarity. “I need Superman not to simply be defeated, but to _give up/_ Metallo can only break his body, but you--oh, you can break his spirit.”

Batman stared at Luthor for a long moment. “Superman hasn’t agreed to a rematch,” was all he said eventually.

Luthor smiled. “You know he will. And then you’ll make him regret ever working here.”

There was a long, tense silence, in which the audience made clear how they felt about this possible alliance. Then Batman pointed at Luthor and said “No deal,” and the boos collapsed into sighs of relief. “I’m not your lackey, and I don’t do your bidding,” Batman snarled. “My reasons for wanting to defeat Superman are my own. They are _not_ yours. Have you got that?”

He turned and strode out of Luthor’s office without waiting for an answer, leaving the camera to zoom slowly in on Luthor’s face, torn between anger and resolve. 

“Oh, I’ve got that, alright,” muttered Luthor.

* * *

“I still think I could be a heel,” Bruce said, watching the monitor as Azrael, still-reigning heavyweight champion, came to the ring to fight the Joker. In the corner a variety of Bruce’s quasi-students--Barbara, Tim, Kon, Steph, and Harper--were goofing off, shooting some kind of video on their phones.

Clark sighed in affectionate exasperation. “Why are you so hell-bent on being a heel?” he asked. “I mean, everyone always goes on and on about how heels have more freedom, more ability to have fun and such, but I don’t buy it. You--’you’ in general, but _you_ in particular--can make anything interesting, you can make a story from anything. Think of it as a fresh new challenge for you, being the world’s first interesting babyface.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” The words were annoyed, but Bruce’s voice was gentle. “The best babyfaces, the rare ones who spend pretty much their whole careers on the side of good, they’re defined by their opponents. And the darker and more evil the enemy, the brighter the face can shine. You keep thinking of us as two solo acts who happen to have been thrown together, but we’re _not._ We’re a unit--one that comes together and apart, sure, but we’re defined by each other. Light and dark. Justice and vengeance. Heart and mind. Superman’s brightness defines Batman’s shadows; Batman’s scowl is a mirror image of Superman’s smile. At first by accident, but then on purpose, we’ve built our lives around each other. As long as we both shall live.”

Clark stared at him for a long moment. The background chatter of the younger wrestlers was a strange counterpoint to the passionate intensity of Bruce’s voice. “Okay,” Clark finally said. “But Batman doesn’t have to be evil for that, Bruce. The night isn’t more evil than the day. Shadows aren’t more evil than light. They’re just _different._ ” He looked away from Bruce, blinking. “Besides,” he said in a small voice, “I hate hearing people boo you.”

“Oh God, Clark,” said Bruce, and leaned forward to kiss the side of his head as if he didn’t care who saw. “You’re unbelievable. But...you’re also not exactly wrong, I suppose.”

“Wow,” said Clark, “Bruce Wayne is admitting I’m right. Call the dirt sheets, we’ve got a story.”

“I didn’t say you were _right,_ I said you _weren’t exactly wrong,_ ” Bruce said. “Besides--”

What he was going to say was abruptly lost in a chorus of inhaled breaths and muttered curses from nearly everyone in the common room. On the screen, Azrael was limping across the ring, clearly testing out putting weight on one leg, which was just as clearly failing to support him.

“He just...slipped,” said Harper, looking shocked. “It wasn’t even a botch.”

Joker swung around to gesticulate mockingly at the audience, drawing the camera and the crowd’s eyes as the referee unobtrusively checked with Jean-Paul. Clark ignored Napier’s distraction, keeping his eyes on the ref and Jean-Paul as they hurriedly conferred. Then the ref looked to the back and crossed his arms briefly over his head: the signal for a real injury.

Everyone in the common room groaned as Azrael lurched to his feet and hobbled across the ring to where the Joker was taunting a small crying child in the front row. He grabbed Joker and rolled him into a quick pin, and the ref counted Joker out. Joker came to his feet incandescent with rage, aiming several carefully-placed kicks at Azrael’s upper body and shoulders, and left him lying in the ring.

Azrael’s mask covered his whole face, but Clark could see the pain in the lines of his body as the trainers rushed up and helped him out of the ring and to the back.

* * *

“They should have called an audible and put the title on _me_ ,” Jack Napier announced angrily, waving his arms at the assembled disheartened wrestlers. “It would have been better than vacating it _yet again_ due to injury.”

“Shut _up,_ Joker,” groaned John Stewart. “Jean-Paul’s been a good champ this time around and it would suck to have him lose the title like that.”

“Oh, like this is better,” snarled Napier. “Vacating a title is the _worst._ ”

“I’m sure you’re not just saying that because you’d be holding it now,” said Stewart.

“Of course not!” said Napier, and seemed at that moment to believe it entirely.

“It’s an opportunity,” said John Corbin, his eyes gleaming beneath his crew cut.

Everyone stared at him. Even the wrestlers who had been thinking it would never be so crass as to say it out loud. 

“It’s a shame,” said Bruce, and Clark could tell he meant it.

* * *

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” said Dick Grayson just a few days later, echoing his mentor without knowing it as he did chin-ups in Wayne Manor’s basement gym. “Jean-Paul and I have never gotten along, but I wouldn’t wish an ACL injury on anyone.”

Tim Drake looked over from his handstand on the turnbuckle. “Luthor’s got to have a tournament and put the strap on Clark now, right? Well, come _on,_ ” he said as everyone looked at him. “Clark is the promotion’s top babyface, and is going to be for the foreseeable future. He’s involved in the year’s most blistering feud with the ominous Dark Knight.” Bruce made a rude noise without looking up from his phone. “Everyone but the most curmudgeonly smarks love him. He’s a totally reliable workhorse. Yet he’s never been heavyweight champion. He’s way, way, _way_ overdue.”

“Clark Kent suffers for our sins,” Dick intoned. “Luthor knows how much we all love him, so he punishes Clark to get at his annoying flock of bats.”

Steph threw her arms around Clark. “Well, we _do_ love him.”

“I’d rather have that than the heavyweight belt,” Clark said, and everyone went _Awwww_ with varying degrees of sincerity and sarcasm. “Anyway,” he said, trying to shift the subject away, “I watched that cage match with Mallah, Dick--great stuff, definite Match of the Year candidate.”

“We were pleased with it,” Dick said, beaming. “So was Lord.”

“I’m not going to be able to lure you back from the Titans even if everything comes together like I hope, am I?” said Bruce.

Dick bit his lip, but met Bruce’s gaze squarely. “I don’t think so, Bruce. Not for the time being, at least. I’m _happy_ there, and I think I’m building something that will last. It means a lot to me.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “Then I’m glad for you. And proud of you.” His smile shifted into something closer to a smirk. “And I guess Clark and I will just have to put on a match that rivals yours for Match of the Year.”

“I haven’t even demanded a rematch yet,” Clark pointed out.

“Oh, but you will,” said Bruce.

“Of course I will,” grinned Clark. “As if I’m going to let you get away with your shameful behavior.”

* * *

“Will you face me again, Dark Knight?” Superman gazed at the shadowy figure on the ramp with determination. “See if you can beat me on a level playing field. Trust me, I will not make the mistake of bringing a weapon for you to use against me this time.”

“I didn’t need it last time,” said the Dark Knight, ignoring Superman’s incredulous laugh, “and I won’t need it this time, either.”

Superman stared at him for a long time, and the angry lines of his face softened into something close to sorrow. “Isn’t there another way? It seems such a waste, somehow. Do we have to do this, my old friend?”

“Yes,” said Batman, though his hands clenched in his cape as if to keep them from trembling. “Yes, we have to do this.” 

He turned and left, and Superman watched him go.

* * *

The locker room and the dirt sheets all agreed that Superman was the best possible choice for a new champion. People started telling him on Twitter how much they were looking forward to seeing him with the championship. Clark bit his lip and kept his thoughts to himself. And Lex made no announcement on the topic even as the DCW led into its next big pay-per-view, with its rematch between Superman and Batman.

* * *

The Dark Knight stood alone in the ring, mic in hand, caught in a harsh pool of light that turned everything outside of it to shadow. He raised the mic slowly, and the sound of his inhalation carried through the hushed arena before he started to speak.

“People have asked me,” he said, “Why I feel like I must fight Superman. Why am I turning on my former friend like this?” He shook his head. “They’ve got it all wrong. I’m not turning on him at all.” He raised his voice. “Superman. Is nothing. But a tool,” he said, enunciating with laser-sharp precision.

The crowd muttered, but subsided as he began to speak again.

“Superman is a tool in the same way this cape and this cowl is a tool,” he said, lifting his black cape in one hand, spreading it wide. Superman is a means by which we can believe the world makes sense. Superman is a symbol of righteousness. Of justice. Of fairness. Fairness from _outside of us,_ ” he said with a sweeping gesture. “But I learned, long ago, that the world doesn’t make sense. The world is a place of _chaos_ and _pain_!” His voice sharpened, then dropped back to a murmur as Bruce wrapped the cape around himself once more. “The world only makes sense if _you_ force it to.” 

The audience was nearly silent. Somewhere in the arena a baby cried, and in the back Clark smiled slightly to himself at how incongruously fitting that small wail in the dark seemed.

He lifted his head as if challenging everyone in the audience. “This mask I wear is how I make sense of the world. How I force my will upon it. _This is my story,_ and I will tell it alone. I do not serve Luthor and the Injustice League. I am not beholden to Superman and the Justice League. And if defeating Superman is necessary, then I will do it. Not because I hate him. But a world with Superman at the center makes no sense, it violates everything we know about the pain at the heart of the world. A world with Luthor at the center is an apple filled with maggots, too corrupt to continue.” Batman thumped his chest once, like a punctuation mark. “ _I alone_ am the one who makes sense of the world. I am the one who forces order onto chaos, denying neither.” He pointed at the audience. “ _I_ am the hero you deserve--no.” He broke off and smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. “I’m not your hero. I am your lone guardian. Your watchful protector. Your Dark Knight.”

He bowed his head, and in the back Tim Drake snorted. “Hold on,” he said, “Let me text Dick and Jason and let them know Batman is a lone wolf who needs no one.”

“Don’t we have a group chat for that?” Steph said. “Alfred and Harper and Babs and Helena and Luke are all in it too.”

“But it still works,” Clark said, watching as Batman made his way out of the ring. “It doesn’t make any sense, but it still works. Isn’t that amazing?”

Tim knocked the side of Clark’s head with an elbow. “What a fanboy you are.”

“He’s a mark for Batman,” said Steph. She glanced at the screen, at the hushed crowd watching as the Dark Knight passed by. 

“But,” she added, “you gotta admit he has a point.”

* * *

That promo was the last in the lead-up to the rematch which kicked off the next pay-per-view. The match was solid and involving, although Clark privately felt perhaps he hadn’t put in his best work: his hurricanrana hadn’t had as much snap as he’d liked, and one time he had oversold one of Bruce’s kicks and almost made it look ridiculous. But no one was talking about the match itself, because they were only talking about the finish.

The two wrestlers had been giving and taking equal offense for almost the entire match, and there had been some near-falls that made the audience gasp. After Superman pinned Batman for the second time, and Batman kicked out at two and a half, no one could tell what was going to happen.

And that’s when Metallo came strolling down to the ring, Kryptonite glowing balefully on his chest. 

Superman gasped and turned pale, staggering away from him, ignoring the Dark Knight entirely. For his part, Batman grabbed the top rope to glare at Metallo. “What the hell are you doing?” he screamed. “I can beat him! Get out of here and let me beat him myself, damn it!”

Metallo crossed his arms so the green light of the stone played across his face and smiled up at him, unmoving.

Batman cursed at him, and Clark imagined the time-delay censors in the back wincing and mashing buttons. But there was no time to enjoy the image, because he had to hurry for the finish: throwing himself forward, he came at Batman’s back with his arms flailing, staggering as if in a panic of pain and assuming he had been betrayed again.

The Dark Knight whirled and struck at him without thinking, and Superman went down in a heap, as if even that glancing blow had been enough to undo him in his weakened state.

Clark lay on the mat, his eyes closed, breathing heavily. He knew that above him the Dark Knight would be hesitating, looking from his fallen foe to Metallo on the outside. He heard Batman sigh and murmur “Okay, then”--too low for the audience to hear, the kind of thing Bruce was always careful to do to stay in character.

Then Clark felt Bruce’s body against his, pinning him almost gently, cradling his head as the ref counted. The bell rang, and for a moment Batman stayed there above him, and Clark knew he was glaring at Metallo--as if, instead of defeating Superman, he were shielding him with his body. They waited there together as Metallo strutted away from the ring, and only once he was at the top of the ramp did Batman stand up.

Clark dragged himself to his hands and knees, retching for the cameras, shaking his head in disbelief. The crowd was booing, and when their boos sharpened into jeers Clark knew Luthor had joined Corbin on the ramp with a mic.

“Congratulations, Batman,” said Luthor. “On your hard-fought victory.”

“Go to hell, Luthor!” Batman yelled, and Clark could hear Bruce’s glee under the Dark Knight’s rasp.

“But I’m not here to dwell on this,” said Luthor. “I’m here to address the fact that the heavyweight title has been vacated.”

Clark felt his heartbeat pick up; Luthor had said nothing about his plans for the most prestigious title in the promotion. 

“We have _so many_ worthy wrestlers in the DCW. How to decide who will hold that title? It’s _such_ a conundrum.” Luthor’s smirk faltered at the moment Clark realized that a scattered “Superman” chant was beginning. “Now,” he went on, raising his voice, “how many people here want to see a tournament to decide who is the champion of this company?” The crowd burst into applause, but the “Superman” chants were not derailed; if anything they grew stronger.

Luthor’s smile was quickly becoming a rictus grin. “Who here wants to see the greatest fighters we have duke it out to prove who’s the top?”

The crowd approved of this idea--but it approved of Superman more.

“Well!” Luthor crowed. “You will indeed see the greatest fighters in the DCW battling for its highest honor. Because next month, the two-time champion, Hal Jordan, will be taking on--” He grabbed John Corbin’s hand and raised it, _”Metallo,_ for the heavyweight championship!”

There was a breathless beat of silence. And then the arena erupted in boos.

Clark staggered to his feet, feeling like someone had punched him in the gut. He hadn’t really expected to win, but to be denied even the symbolic chance--it felt bad, like a door being slammed in his face. All the worse for finding out in public, in the ring like this. For a moment he struggled to hide it, and then he took a breath and gathered up all that anger and disappointment and let it pour out of him, let it lift his chin to glare at Lex, even as he swayed on his feet.

Batman was on the bottom rope, leaning out of the ring, glaring at Luthor. He jabbed a finger at ring. “You just _had_ your championship match between the two greatest fighters in the DCW, Lex!” he yelled, and it was Bruce’s voice, raw with anger and pain.

“Oh please,” Luthor sneered, unfazed at having to improvise. He pointed at Superman. “ _You_ just lost like a chump. And _you,_ ” he went on, pointing at Batman, “couldn’t win without outside help! The way I see it, neither of you belongs at the top of the card-- _my_ card.”

He leaned back and smirked, then turned to Corbin. “This is where I drop the mic, right?”

“Sure thing, boss,” said Corbin.

Luthor held out his hand with the mic, paused dramatically, and let it drop to the ramp with a loud _thump._

* * *

“No, Bruce.”

Bruce grinned up at Clark from the hotel bed. “Come on. It would be fun.”

“A promo where you’re chained up and I interrogate you? I don’t think I could do that without laughing.” Clark shook his head at Bruce’s imploring look. “And no, it wouldn’t make it more acceptable if we revealed later it was all a dream sequence. You know perfectly well wrestling doesn’t work that way, Bruce. The audience doesn’t get to see wrestlers’ _dreams_.”

“But oh, if they could see mine,” Bruce said, smiling as if he had some wonderful secret, his eyes far away.

“Are all your dreams so kinky, Bruce? Share.”

“I’ll tell you my most precious, intimate dream, Clark, the most cherished vision in my heart.” Bruce paused, and Clark raised his eyebrows at him and waited. “You with that heavyweight championship belt around your waist.”

Clark looked down and swallowed hard. “You dope,” he said. “Lex has decided I’m not championship material and that’s that.” 

Luthor had politely explained to the locker room that he believed Superman’s popularity would be “squandered” in a title run. “Clark, I’d hate to derail this red-hot feud you’ve got going with Bruce right now,” he had said. “And you’re so over, you really don’t need this belt.”

“But he deserves it,” muttered a voice in the back, and Clark had seen Luthor’s bright eyes take note of it. Steph Brown wouldn’t be getting a shot at the women’s title anytime soon either, he suspected.

He pulled his thoughts back to their hotel room. “It’s just not happening,” he said to Bruce, trying not to sound discouraged.

“Oh, it’s happening,” said Bruce. “I’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen. You’ll see. It will all make sense. I’ll _make it_ make sense.”

Then he reached out and tugged at Clark’s hand, pulling him toward the bed.

“But in the meantime,” he said, “let me tell you more about this promo.”

“The one with you helplessly chained up at my mercy and me being all masterful and intimidating?”

_“That’s_ the one,” Bruce said with satisfaction.


	72. Match of the Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Black and blue. Fight night! The greatest gladiator match in the history of the world. God versus Man. Day versus night. Son of Krypton versus bat of Gotham!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole, without shame, the endings to two of my favorite matches of all time to give to Clark and Bruce here.

_ As all art is said to aspire to the condition of music, all wrestling aspires to the condition of brotherly love. --Thomas Hackett, “Slaphappy” _

“Batman!” Superman’s voice seemed to carry to every corner of the arena. “I think you know we’re not done.”

Batman kept his back to Superman, standing on the other side of the ring. “Don’t make me beat you again,” he said.

“You’re not going to beat me again,” Superman said. “Because the next time we meet, I want it to be…” He paused, and Clark could hear the energy in the audience pick up, anticipatory. “... _in a steel cage.”_ A roar of approval. “No more outside interference, no more Kryptonite. Just you and I, man to man, facing each other down.”

Batman didn’t turn, stayed silent.

“Or are you afraid to face me without help?” Superman jibed.

The Dark Knight turned at that, crossing the ring with a few strides to slap Superman across the face. The arena went silent with shock, and Superman went very still, staring at Batman, his hands clenched at his sides.

“I’m not afraid of you or of anybody,” Batman said. “And I _welcome_ the chance to meet you in a steel cage, Superman. I’ll show you the steel that’s in my soul, and no one will doubt my will again.”

“I’ve never doubted your will,” said Superman, his voice unnervingly calm. “Or your pride.” He reached out and grabbed Batman’s chin, too quickly for Batman to avoid it. “But don’t doubt mine, either,” he said, then pushed Batman away from him, sending him staggering across the ring.

The camera cut to end the show with the two of them still staring each other down.

* * *

“Hold on, I’ll find one of their videos,” Steph said, tapping at her phone. Cassandra Cain leaned over her shoulder to point, and Steph said, “I know, I know, this one, not that one.”

“One of whose videos?” Clark asked, dropping into the chair next to Bruce’s at the coffeeshop table.

“Oh, Bruce was asking us about any young wrestlers we might know that would be good to keep an eye on in the future,” said Tim. “He already knows all the kids in Sora, and then Steph remembered these two backyard wrestler kids.”

“Backyard wrestling?” Clark couldn’t keep his nose from wrinkling a bit. “I don’t think we should be encouraging that.”

“I know, I know,” said Steph. “Unregulated stupid kids falling off things and thinking it makes them cool. But these two are unusual. They’ve basically got a whole little promotion of their own going. One of their parents paid for a decent ring, they even charge admission to the neighborhood kids. Entirely self-taught, and Clark--they’re naturals. Look.”

She held up the phone and Bruce and Clark leaned in to get a better look at the video. 

On the screen were two kids--they couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, and maybe younger--dressed in crude, clearly hand-made bright costumes. The younger-looking one was a sullen-eyed boy with dark hair that fell across his eyes, who stood in the center of the ring glaring.

The subject of his glare was a girl with red hair, cut short, a pair of goggles on top of her head. She grinned and removed the goggles, tossing them into the crowd of kids--not a small crowd, either, Clark noticed. Then she went to the ropes and waved out at them. “I’m sorry, but I’ll need those back later,” she said. “They’re not cheap!”

Everyone laughed. And as they laughed, the dark-haired boy launched himself at her back. She spun to counter him--and Clark felt his eyebrows go up. Steph was right, they _were_ naturals. They knew how to move, how to involve the crowd, how to tell a story. The boy finally emerged victorious to the mingled cheers and boos of the crowd, and the girl got to her feet to address them all once more.

“Remember the names! Carrie Kelly and Damian al-Ghul! And buy our t-shirts!” she added, waving toward a stand set up on the lawn.

“Al-Ghul?” Bruce was frowning as the video ended. “That’s an...interesting name. I worked with a promoter named al-Ghul in Asia. I wonder if he’s taken that name as an homage or if…” He shook his head. 

“Either way,” Clark said, “I agree these two kids are impressive, but we can’t go recruiting children. Anyway, they’re likely to lose interest as they get older.”

“Not these two,” said Cassandra. “I can tell. The way they hold themselves. They’re _wrestlers._ They need guidance.”

“Hm,” said Bruce. “Well.” He looked at Cassandra, who looked back at him without smiling, her black hair falling into her eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

“Good,” said Cassandra.

* * *

“Lexie!” Billionaire Brucie’s nasal voice cut into Lex Luthor’s discussion of this week’s match. He ambled down the ring with a mic in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. “Oh Lexie, let’s have a chat.” He started to get into the ring and realized with comedic suddenness that he couldn’t easily get into the ring with both hands occupied; after a moment he handed the whiskey glass to Luthor, who stood, looking annoyed, as Brucie clambered into the ring, then brushed off his bespoke suit. “Thanks so much,” he said, taking the whiskey glass back.

“Why exactly are you here interrupting me, Bruce?” Luthor snapped.

Brucie batted his eyelashes at Lex over the rim of his glass, taking a sip. “I do hate to interrupt your excruciatingly important recap of previous events,” Brucie said, and Clark saw Lex’s eyes snap legit annoyance for a second. “But I knew this was the only way to get you to listen to a little...proposition I had for you.”

Luthor rolled his eyes and made an impatient gesture with his hand: _go on._

“It seems to me that you’ve got a wealth of smaller, talented folks and a dearth of ways to use them,” Bruce said. “Folks like Blue Beetle, Metamorpho, Creeper, Trickster, Parasite, Red Robin--” He had stopped for applause with each name, but had to stop for notably longer with Tim Drake’s. “Kyle Rayner, Scarecrow, Shining Knight--so much talent that deserves more recognition. And as it so happens, I’m here to suggest a means to that end! I’m here to propose the Thomas and Martha Wayne Memorial Tournament--” He waved the hand with the whiskey glass as if pointing at an invisible marquee, “--to showcase your cruiserweight wrestlers.”

The crowd was torn. On the one hand, they hated “Billionaire Bruce Wayne” and what they believed to be his pretense of being the real orphaned billionaire. On the other hand…

The cheers quickly drowned out the boos as the audience decided it loved the idea of a cruiserweight tournament too much to hate it, even if it did come from Billionaire Brucie. 

Bruce flicked a quick eyebrow upward at Lex, and Clark remembered how Lex had so often argued people were here to see the big heavy hitters, not smaller guys. The he opened his arms invitingly to Lex: _Shall we?_

“Brucie, Brucie, Brucie,” sighed Luthor. “As the heir to the Wayne fortune--” He weighted the words with irony, making clear he didn’t believe it for a second, “I’m _shocked_ that you don’t understand how a business works. The DCW is a publically traded company, which means I cannot simply make unilateral decisions--in fact, aren’t you a shareholder?”

“I am?” Bruce’s face was a caricature of surprise. “I guess I have so many stocks in so many places; I had totally forgotten. How interesting!”

“Well, don’t bother to look it up, you don’t own enough to make decisions,” Luthor said. “It’s all very technical, but believe me that I have to keep in mind the bigger picture, which you seem unable to see.”

“My goodness,” murmured Brucie, “Could it be that the DCW isn’t as financially stable as it seems?”

For just a second, there was a flash of something in Luthor’s eyes: worry, or anger, or both. He opened his mouth, but then Metamorpho’s music hit and the Element Man strode down the ramp to yell at Bruce Wayne and make clear that he didn’t want to be in any stupid patronizing cruiserweight division, he wanted a shot at the _intercontinental title,_ buddy!

* * *

“Actually,” said Rex Mason backstage later, wiping off his white facepaint, “A cruiserweight tournament sounds like a pretty cool idea. Not that I’m really complaining about getting a shot at the IC title, either. Keeps me in the public eye, even if I’m going to lose.”

“It _would_ be a pretty nice idea, wouldn’t it?” said Clark.

“Well, too bad you’re not running the company, Clark,” said Rex, slapping him on the back.

Clark grinned and went looking for Bruce, who was holding a flier for the next pay-per-view in his hands, staring down at it. Hal Jordan was standing over him, talking loudly, but Bruce wasn’t looking at him.

“A thirty-minute cage match,” Hal said, throwing his hands in the air. “They’re putting the heavyweight title match on after a thirty-minute cage match between Superman and Batman. I can’t believe it. This is bullshit.”

“I know,” Bruce said. He crumpled up the flier--emblazoned with Green Lantern and Metallo’s faces--and lobbed it into the trash. “ _We_ should be the main event. It’s the hottest feud of the year, it’s the best storyline of the year--and Lex isn’t giving it main event billing, is he _blind?_ ”

Hal transferred his incredulous stare from Bruce to Clark, who shrugged: _He isn’t wrong._ “My _point_ is,” said Hal, “That you guys shouldn’t be getting thirty minutes and you shouldn’t be getting a cage match! The crowd’s going to be totally blown up when you guys are done, the title match is going to be an _afterthought._ It’s clear favoritism.”

”Favoritism?” Bruce jumped to his feet. _“Favoritism?_ Lex has done _nothing_ but try to bury us and _everyone we associate with_ for years now, and he _finally_ realizes we need some real time and the right setting to finish up this chapter of our story--that’s not favoritism, that’s doing the _bare minimum_ to promote this story!” He stomped over to the trash and pulled the crumpled flier out, unfolded it and waved it in Hal’s face: “And look at this! Look at us, way in the back. The most anticipated match of the year, and he shoves us in the background. It’s bad for everyone.”

“Well, it sucks to have to follow it, that’s for sure.”

“How’s about you try to top it?” Bruce shot back.

“Our match has almost no build, no storyline--what the hell, Bruce, we’re not _magicians!”_

“Sure we are,” said Bruce, and his smile at Clark was sweet and smug.

Hal threw up his hands and stormed off.

“Hal’s right that Luthor didn’t have to give us so much time and the drama of a cage,” Clark said once he was out of earshot.

“He’s conflicted, I know,” said Bruce. “He wants to make money without relying on us, but we’re the best he’s got and he knows it. He ends up hurting his promotion to try and hurt us.” He shook his head. “When our time comes, you can bet we won’t make the same mistakes.”

“You seem pretty confident that our time is coming.”

“Oh, it is,” Bruce said with relish. “There’s just a few more pieces to put in place. We’re almost there. But for now…” He nodded slowly. “We’ve got our blow-off match coming up. And then another chapter of Superman and Batman’s friendship will close.” He rolled up the crumpled paper and tapped Clark’s head with it. “Wham wham wham,” he whispered.

“Wham wham wham,” Clark whispered back. “Always.”

* * *

It was the night of their cage match. The arena was alight and abuzz with the atmosphere that only big pay-per-views had. Clark went out to help set up the ring, enjoying the ritual of it, the feel of the ropes and the boards beneath his hands. As he finished up he blinked to find Jean-Paul Valley sitting with one of the lighting technicians in front of the lighting board, his foot still in its cast propped up on a stool. “Uh… hey,” Clark said. “How’s the foot doing?”

“It’s doing well,” Jean-Paul said. “There’s some pain, but nothing I can’t bear.” He looked up at Clark and smiled, and Clark was startled at how sweet it was. It had been a long time since he had seen Jean-Paul smile, he realized. “I’m observing the lighting tonight,” he said. “I happened to give them some ideas into how to achieve some better effects, and they seemed...rather excited.”

“Excited’s not the word,” said the technician--Neal, Clark dredged the name up from his memory. “Jean-Paul’s got some amazing insight into the use of light and shadows to create effect.”

“My major was in electrical engineering,” Jean-Paul said like an explanation.

“Well, I’m sure it’s quite a letdown after being champ,” said Neal, but if you wanted to direct the lighting for a house show or two, just to try your hand…”

“Oh,” Jean-Paul said. He sounded almost stunned. “I think I’d like that.” He beamed up at Clark. “Have you and Bruce finished blocking out your match?”

“Actually…” Clark scratched the back of his head, feeling self-conscious. “We haven’t discussed it much. It’s our last match for a while,” he said to Jean-Paul’s raised eyebrows, “And, I don’t know, we want it to come from the heart. We want that...energy, you know? We know the beats we want to hit, but if you think about it too much it gets stale.”

Jean-Paul nodded slowly, approving. “You know your own hearts and your own characters. The energy will flow naturally from that.” He paused, then got carefully to his feet. “And for the record, Clark,” he said, “I told Luthor I wanted you to be the next champion. You would have been the right choice.” 

He held out his hand, and Clark took it, feeling awkward. 

“Thank you,” Clark said simply, and Jean-Paul nodded and sat back down, quickly losing himself in animated conversation about lighting once more.

* * *

“Black and blue,” intoned Lex as the cage slowly settled down around Superman and Batman. He threw his arms out wide. “Fight night. The greatest gladiator match in the history of the world!”

Clark met Bruce’s eyes without wavering as the cage came into place with a _clang_ , flat and final.

“God versus man,” cackled Luthor. He was really getting into it. “Day versus night. Son of Krypton versus Bat of Gotham!”

The most miniscule flicker of annoyance went across Bruce’s face, and Clark knew exactly what he was thinking: that “Son of Krypton versus _Knight_ of Gotham” would have worked better.

“Ring the bell!” yelled Luthor.

The crowd was molten. Screams and cries seemed to rise around the ring like greedy waves. But in the cage Clark felt calm settle over him. This was it. The last match in this feud. The end of this chapter. _Make it count. Match of the Year._ He looked at Bruce and knew the camera was picking up everything on his face as he felt it: the resolve, the worry, the sadness. It just meant something different on Superman’s face than on Clark’s. 

Superman put his hand out for the traditional handshake. Batman stared at it, then shook his head, taking a step away and raising his hands up for the lockup. The crowd noise ebbed away as people settled in for the match.

Superman blinked hard, and the cameras caught a glitter of tears. He lowered his hand and stepped forward, and the match began.

It started slow, with a variety of lockups and testing-outs, establishing that they were equally matched. Bruce was fighting without gloves tonight, and his hands on Clark’s skin were cold at first. Batman got backed into a corner by Superman and the ref warned Superman he had to step away; the crowd waited to see if the Man of Steel would do a clean break. Superman backed off, and for just a moment it looked like Batman might lunge at him, but the break stayed clean as they moved back into the center of the ring.

Superman was stronger than Batman, but Batman was clearly more agile, managing to keep Superman from getting to the ropes so he couldn’t do any of his more famous aerial moves. They moved around the ring easily, their bodies in flawless sync--every time Clark would do something Bruce would counter it; for every move Bruce made Clark was ready. Clark could read Bruce so well by now that it felt instantaneous, more like telepathy than knowledge.

They picked up the pace naturally, letting the crowd noise rise up with them. Clark could hear Luthor outside the cage yelling encouragement to whoever seemed to be on top at the moment: “Kick him, Batman!” “Rip his arm off, Superman!” Bruce’s hands were warm now, his eyes snapping sparks every time Clark drew close, a fierce smile on his face.

Time to take it outside the ring a bit.

Superman caught Batman off the top rope as he tried to do a crossbody. Pivoting, he hurled the Dark Knight bodily out of the ring, sending him crashing against the steel cage. The crowd gasped in unison as Batman sprawled to the floor so dramatically that Clark felt a moment’s relief when he saw Bruce make the check-in with the ref, squeezing his hand to let him know he was all right.

Clark’s turn.

He went up and over the ropes as if to land right on Batman, but Batman jumped to his feet and used Superman’s own momentum to slam him hard against the cage. The _clang_ of steel against flesh seemed to ring out across the audience, and Clark felt the metal lattices cut into his back. _That’ll leave some nice welts,_ he thought with satisfaction through the pain.

Superman hauled himself to his feet and they battled around the ring. Neither of them were moving as fast as they had been, and Clark felt real fatigue starting to drag at his muscles, felt sweat slicking his skin. _Time for third gear_.

A flurry of moves, give and take. Batman was starting to look desperate; Clark could hear the announcers mentioning that Batman’s strength lay in agility rather than sheer strength, and that as the match wore on Superman’s advantage would grow. With a sudden burst of offense Batman backed Superman into a corner and they rested against each other for a moment before Bruce backed away again. Another clean break.

“Hey!” yelled Luthor, and Superman turned just in time to catch the kendo stick that Luthor had tossed into the cage. “Go get ‘im,” said Luthor with a feral grin.

Superman took the kendo stick and snapped it across his knee into splinters and tossed it aside with casual contempt. The audience howled with delight, but their howls shifted cadance into a very different emotion as the Injustice League came down the ramp to surround the cage, circling like sharks.

Both Batman and Superman continued to fight, one eye on the villains surrounding them. Batman was slowly but surely growing more tired than Superman. Superman did two suplexes and then attempted a pin, but Batman kicked out. Then Batman pulled off a beautiful arm drag into a pin, but Superman kicked out. With every near fall Clark could hear the audience excitement rise a notch. They were getting really hot now.

“Batman!” 

The Dark Knight turned as Luthor tossed another kendo stick into the ring and caught it out of the air. For a long moment he held it there between himself and Superman, glaring at him. The crowd noise rose. And rose. Clark could feel Bruce waiting until it reached its plateau, and at that precise moment he snapped it over his knee. The crowd screamed as he turned and hurled the pieces at Luthor--not with the disdain Superman had, but with a blind fury that sent the pieces careening into the cage to scatter at random. “Are you _insane?_ ” he screamed at Luthor. “I don’t trust _him_ \--” He pointed at Superman, and his hand was shaking. “I don’t trust the most noble, good-hearted, kind, and valiant man I know--” Clark blinked hard; Bruce hadn’t told him exactly what he was going to say, and the raw emotion in his voice hit Clark harder than any blow. “If I cannot trust him, there’s no way in _hell_ I’ll ever trust you!”

He turned back to look at Superman, his face filled with grief and pain, and launched himself back at him, his arms swinging wildly, clearly driven to the edge of exhaustion. Superman sidestepped and pulled him down into a headlock, feeling Bruce’s sides heaving like sobs. It had been twenty minutes now and they were both reaching the end of their endurance.

The crowd noise peaked; the Justice League were on their way to the ring to brawl and chase off Luthor’s villains. Clark took the opportunity to rest against Bruce, feeling his body shaking against him. “Bruce,” he whispered without moving his lips. “Are you okay?” 

Bruce’s eyes were unfocused, his breathing shallow. He was lost in his character, and Clark felt something like awe touch him in that moment. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered as the heels fled to thunderous applause, as the heroes stood outside the cage, guarding it.

Bruce made a sobbing noise, but then he rested his head against Clark’s for a fleeting moment. “Never,” he whispered back.

And then it was time to go again. They hadn’t discussed this, it was all improv melodrama, but Clark knew where it had to go. “Why?” he yelled, feeling Bruce’s heart hammering against him. “Why won’t you trust me?” 

“I _can’t!_ ” Batman screamed, and threw off the headlock, staggering to his feet. He came at Clark again, his arms tracing roundhouse blows that Superman dodged by the narrowest of margins as Clark read Bruce’s body, their twinned exhaustion making everything seem distant and far away. Superman climbed the turnbuckle, preparing for his finishing hurricanrana--and Batman dropkicked him. Clark caught a glimpse of Bruce’s eyes, bright with adrenaline and exhaustion, and realized at the last second that Bruce had overshot. He pulled back, but Bruce’s feet connected solidly with his chest and sent him tumbling off the turnbuckle and into the cage with more force than he had intended.

He felt the links come up hard against his forehead, and then the floor was knocking the wind out of him. He staggered to his feet, hearing a ripple of reaction radiate out through the crowd, and resisted the impulse to wipe at his forehead. _Shame to waste it,_ he thought as he felt blood trickling down his face, stippling his chest.

Batman glared at him as he climbed into the ring, no chagrin at all on his face. He waited, letting Clark take the lead and decide what to do with this sudden crimson addition to the story.

Superman put his chin up, letting the blood run down his face. Then he slowly raised a hand and wiped off his cheek. Keeping his eyes locked on Batman, he held up his hand, smeared with scarlet. “You asked if I bleed,” he said. “And I do. I’ll bleed for _you._ For our friendship. For my brother. If you trust me.”

For a second, Clark saw Bruce’s throat work. The audience was still, watching.

“I can’t,” mouthed Batman, and the crowd-- _sighed._

Batman staggered forward, clearly on his last legs, and the fight began anew.

The end was a wild, desperate scramble, devoid of any artistry. Just two men struggling to stay standing, powered by nothing but will and determination. Superman caught up Batman’s head in a running bulldog, dropping him onto the mat, and for a long moment they both stayed down. Clark could feel his hair dripping, the sweat mixing with his blood, his breath coming hard as he staggered to his feet, propping his back against the turnbuckle.

In the middle of the ring, Batman pulled himself slowly to his feet and stood, swaying. He tried to take a step--and his knees almost gave out. He was clearly almost unable to move, staying on his feet only through sheer power of will. His chin dropped to his chest. Then he raised his head and looked at Superman for a long moment. “Go on,” he said into the nearly-silent arena. “Do it.”

Clark looked at him. This had always been where this match had been going, even though they had never discussed the specifics. They hadn’t needed to. It was the only possible ending. “I’m sorry,” said Superman. 

“I love you,” said Clark. 

And then he gathered himself up and leaped forward to deliver his flying finishing punch at Batman. 

Batman toppled over, eyes closed, going limp as he crashed to the mat. The crowd seemed to all take one great whooping breath together, and then they all started screaming as the ref made the count.

Clark put his head down on Bruce’s chest, hearing his heart pounding. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them had to.

Match of the year.

Superman finally staggered to his feet as the cage was lifted. The Justice League came in and stood around him, patting him on the back, speaking to him. Flash had off one of his gloves and was wiping the blood from Superman’s face. Clark knew there were tears running down his cheeks, and he didn’t care. He struggled for breath, and caught a glimpse of Luthor’s face outside the ring, shaking his head, his eyes filled with grudging admiration. 

And then he felt the other members of the League stiffen and murmur, and knew that behind him, Batman was getting to his feet.

Superman turned to look at Batman, who stood in silence. Finally, Superman stepped forward, his hand out, his face hopeful but wary. Pleading.

The crowd murmured, waiting.

Batman’s fists clenched. Then, with what had to be his last shreds of strength, he kicked Superman’s outstretched hand away with a sharp, vicious movement. Clark heard a groan of disappointment ripple through the arena.

And he heard it transmute into delight as Batman staggered forward and threw his arms around him.

They stood for a long moment, letting the audience’s benediction touch them. Then Batman stepped back and nodded once. He started to leave the ring, and his knees buckled; Superman started forward as if he couldn’t help himself, then checked himself with an effort and let Batman steady himself on the ropes.

Everyone watched as he made his way up the ramp, and the wondering joy of the crowd slowly rose into applause and cheers that followed him out of the arena.

* * *

“We’re the top story on all the major web pages,” Clark said, shifting so the ice would touch a different aching part of his body.

“Of course we are,” said Bruce, not looking up from his phone.

“Poor Corbin. New champ and no one’s talking about him.”

“Sucks to be him,” Bruce said blithely. “We should have been the main event.”

“You’re going to be bitter about that forever, aren’t you?”

“Damn straight. At least until--” Bruce stopped talking abruptly, staring at his phone. There was a flurry of quick finger motions as he sat forward, silent.

“What?” said Clark, but Bruce ignored him.

“Wait,” he said, half to Clark and half to himself. “If I… And then…” A slow smile started to spread across his face. Well,” he said. “Just what I needed to make tonight perfect.”

 _”What?"_ said Clark.

Bruce stood up and tossed the phone onto the bed, then grabbed Clark by the hand and dragged him up into something that was half dance and half hug, ignoring Clark’s groaned protests.

“Clark,” he said, throwing his arms out, “I just made the final deal. All the pieces are in place.”

Tomorrow night, you and I are taking over the DCW.”


	73. Takeover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman, Superman, Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent all have something important to tell Lex Luthor.

_ To me there is something beautiful about a brotherhood of big, tough men who only pretend to hurt one another for a living instead of actually doing it. --Bret Hart _

“Mr. Luthor. May I have a word with you?”

Lex Luthor didn’t even look up at the figure standing in his office door. “Look, Kent, I know you’re going to ask me when you’ll _finally_ get that shot at the heavyweight title, because you’ve _worked so hard_ and you _deserve it so much,_ and my answer is--you’ll be given it the moment _I_ decide you deserve it, and not a moment sooner.”

“That isn’t actually what I came to talk to you about,” Clark said, stepping in and closing the door. “I’ve come here to ask you--are you sorry about the Graysons and what happened to them?”

Luthor’s head came up and his eyes narrowed. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“It always has,” Clark said.

Luthor shrugged. “I’m sorry it happened, of course I am,” he said. “But the investigation showed--”

“--I’m not talking about legal responsibility,” said Clark. 

“And the statute of limitations--”

“Lex. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about regret. What I’m asking you is, could you pick up your phone right now and call Dick Grayson and tell him that you’re sorry his parents died in your ring?”

Luthor looked at his phone. “It was a long time ago,” he said after a moment. “And there’s nothing left to say.”

“So you couldn’t do it.”

“It wouldn’t change anything,” said Luthor.

“Yes it would,” said Clark, “and you know it.” He turned back to the door. “Lex,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“This,” said Lex through gritted teeth as Clark swung the door open. “This, Kent, is why you will never be champion--your overweening, holier-than-thou arrogance.”

“I’m sorry,” Clark said again, and let the door shut behind him.

* * *

“What did he say?” Bruce said as Clark dropped down onto the common room couch next to him.

“He said...it was a long time ago and there was nothing to be done now.”

Bruce sighed. “And did you ask him about…”

Clark threw up his hands. “Bruce, no way was I going to ask him about my chances for a heavyweight title shot, you know that! I can’t believe you even wanted me to!”

Bruce looked at his face for a while. “But he answered you anyway, didn’t he?” He watched as Clark rubbed wordlessly at his face. “It’s never going to happen.”

“That’s not a good reason to take over someone’s business, Bruce.”

“You _know_ that’s not the only reason.” Bruce’s voice was sharp and a few people glanced their way; he leaned closer to Clark, dropping his voice: “Lex keeps burying new young talent. He almost destroyed Dick’s career. He almost destroyed Jean-Paul’s career _and his entire life_ by pushing him too hard. This isn’t about revenge or petty personal issues, it’s about the future. Lex won’t work with other promotions. He’s focused on destroying, not on creating. It’s just the way he is. We can do it differently. We can do it _better._ Not just for us, but for all the wrestlers coming after us. For the audience. For everyone. You know it’s true, Clark.”

After a moment, Clark nodded, and Bruce clapped him on the shoulder.

“Okay, let’s grab Tim and get that video made. And then it’s showtime at last.”

* * *

The broadcast opened with Lex Luthor addressing the crowd, introducing the new heavyweight champion, Metallo! The crowd booed as John Corbin made his way to the ring with the title over his shoulder, and backstage Diana winced. “That’s bad,” she said.

“Wait,” said Kara. “He’s the heel. The crowd’s _supposed_ to boo the heel.”

“Listen,” said Diana. “That’s not the sound of a crowd that’s loving hating the bad guy. That’s the sound of a crowd that’s bored and annoyed.”

“Go home heat,” said Barbara, grimacing. “Well, what can you expect? There hasn’t been any build, they don’t feel like he deserves that title, and--well, let’s be honest, Corbin’s got the personality to match his robot gimmick. The crowd sure doesn’t love him, but they can’t even hate him in any sort of satisfying way.”

Bruce stood up and pulled on his cowl. “Well, it’s been a pleasure,” he said curtly, and it was clear he hadn’t even been listening to the conversation. “Clark and I have to get to the ring.”

“What?” said Diana. “You’re not...part of this promo.”

“Oh my God,” said Barbara. “I was right! It’s really happening--it’s happening _now_ , isn’t it?”

“What’s now?” said Diana.

“We need to watch this,” Barbara said, grabbing the remote and turning up the sound as Clark and Bruce left catering. “Everyone should probably watch this. Hold on, I gotta call Dick!”

* * *

_“Night-wing! Night-wing! Night-wing! Night-wing!”_

Luthor was having a hard time making himself heard over the chants of the crowd. It wasn’t that they expected Dick Grayson to show up at all; they’d just gotten in the habit of chanting his name when they were bored or frustrated.

“Shut up, all of you!” Luthor snarled as Metallo crossed his arms and glowered out at them. “As I was saying, it’s a shame about Azrael, but we’ve got a new champion, one who’ll bring prestige and honor to the title. And I think--”

The audience started doing the wave, and Lex Luthor glared out at them for a moment in mute and impotent fury. Then he rallied and started to continue his promo, determined to make it to the end.

He never got there.

The rippling wave dissolved into thousands of people standing up and cheering as the entrance theme for the World’s Finest--the song which hadn’t been heard for months--hit the arena, and Superman and Batman came down to the ring.

Clark saw Luthor’s wary, annoyed eyes flick between the two of them as he and Bruce got into the ring together: this wasn’t in the script. But Luthor was a pro. “I see you two have settled your differences? How sweet,” he sneered. With a quick gesture he indicated that Corbin should leave the ring; the champ wasn’t good enough on the mic to handle an impromptu promo like this.

“We may not always get along,” said Superman, “but we know when there’s a greater threat to be dealt with.”

The Dark Knight pointed at Luthor. “Lex Luthor,” he intoned, “your family has run this company for generations. But this isn’t a dynasty, and you are not royalty.”

“This isn’t your personal kingdom, to run as you see fit,” said Superman. “Your decisions have brought pain and destruction to the people who work for you. That will not be allowed to stand.”

Clark could see the lightning-quick calculations in Luthor’s eyes: _They’re paying off on that old storyline where Bruce owns part of the company. I see._ “You may have missed this, superfriends,” he said, “but this is _my_ company, and as the owner--”

“--Ah,” said Superman, “but this is a publicly-traded company, you know.”

“And as it turns out,” Batman said, “we have some very wealthy friends who agree with us about the need for a change.”

Batman waved a hand--and the jumbotron screen sprang to life.

On it were Clark Kent in full backstage interviewer regalia, holding a microphone for Billionaire Brucie in a sharp suit, a red rose in his buttonhole.

“What the _hell,_ ” Clark heard Lex mutter.

“Brucie,” said Clark Kent, “I hear you have some very important news for us. Could you explain it to all of the DCW universe?”

Brucie waved a hand. “Well, Kent, it’s all very technical, and I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details. But to make a long story short--” He held up his phone. “When I press this button, the final transaction will go through to make me a majority stockholder of the DCW.” Bruce smiled out of the screen, a sharp smile very much at odds with his languid, lazy posture. “It’s taken me a long time, Lex. Years of work, of setting up shell accounts and moving things around and getting things in order. All to bring me to this moment.”

He touched his phone screen.

“And… it’s done,” he said. “Bit of an anticlimax, I suppose, but financial stuff is so complex, don’t you think? Next time I’ll have the tech guys connect it to some fireworks or something. Hold on,” he said, and threw his arms up, making dramatic firework noises. “I guess that will have to do. Anyway, what it means is that I have control of your company now and there are going to be some changes around here.” The crowd started to applaud, quietly at first, then louder and louder at this clever story twist. “I’ll let the World’s Finest there explain the rest, Lex.” Brucie smiled at Clark Kent. “I think I’m going to go celebrate,” he said, and the screen went black.

“Very funny,” said Luthor, turning from the screen with a sneer. There was a mix of confusion and suspicion in his eyes, but he forged ahead: “I hope you’re--”

“It’s true, Lex,” said Batman. 

Lex turned from the screen to look at him.

Bruce nodded. “It’s true,” he said. “Clark and I are majority stockholders now. The company is ours.”

Not a muscle in Lex’s face flickered. “I always suspected it,” he said through his teeth. To the side, Clark could hear the announcers desperately babbling, trying to fill in time, unsure what was going on. “This is because I wouldn’t push Clark as champion, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Clark. “You probably won’t believe us, but it never was.”

“Then it’s about Dick getting screwed out of the title.”

“No,” said Bruce. “No, Lex. It’s about the Graysons. It’s about your greed costing a boy his parents, and your cowardice nearly denying him justice. It was always about the Graysons.”

Grudging respect flickered in Lex’s eyes. “That’s some long-term planning,” he said.

“I’ve always been good at that,” Bruce said.

There was a long, long silence as the crowd whooped and Clark watched Luthor nod slowly. 

“So what now, you bastards?” Luthor said under the cheers and applause.

“Now you get to choose the ending of your story,” said Clark. “You get to decide how you go out.”

“We’ll follow your lead,” Bruce said.

Clark watched as various scenarios flashed by in Luthor’s eyes: he could break kayfabe, denounce them. He could tell everyone that Batman was Billionaire Brucie and that Brucie was the real Bruce Wayne. He could tear away the veil of illusion that made it all possible, could scream the truth to all these people--nearly all of whom already knew it was illusion, but who cherished the falsehood, nourished it, made it real with their cheers and boos and love.

It seemed to take forever, but in reality Luthor reached his conclusion in an eyeblink. “Cut me off and drop me when I’m done,” he said under his breath, looking Clark dead in the eye. “And make it look good, you son of a bitch.”

Then he raised his mic and started to rant. 

It was a monologue for the ages--one of the best heel promos of all time, the message boards agreed later, starting with “You think you’ve won! You think you’ve defeated me! Well, no one defeats Lex Luthor!” and working its way through a crescendo of melodramatic fury as the crowd tried to drown him out with their jeers. “You’ll never succeed without my brilliance!” he eventually announced as Clark and Bruce waited. “That callow, fickle Wayne will lose interest in his latest toy and toss it away, and you will all rue the day he bought your souls. You’ll come crawling back to me one day on your hands and knees, begging me to save your sorry hides, and I will look down on you and _laugh._ ” His eyes flashed as he threw out his hands to take in the crowd. “And these simpletons! They’ll realize what they’ve lost. They’ll come to loathe you! These gullible, moronic, simple-minded _sheep_ who don’t recognize greatness when it stands in front of them, who do not recognize that I, Lex Luthor, am the greatest genius of my generation! I embrace their contempt! I revel in their hatred! _Listen to them!_ ” 

He threw out his hands and closed his eyes, and for a moment he smiled as the audience howled, drinking it in, supreme in his element. Then he met Clark’s eyes and nodded once, the tiniest motion, before opening his mouth to speak again.

“And so--” he started, but he didn’t finish, because Superman stepped forward and punched him once, a roundhouse blow that dropped him in his tracks. 

Mercy came running, glaring at Superman and Batman (and at Clark and Bruce) and helped her boss to his feet, trying to provide support. Lex shoved her away: “I’m walking out on my own, damn it,” he snarled.

And he did.

* * *

The arena was silent, the crowds gone home, happy and sated, unaware that they had just witnessed reality colliding with kayfabe. Bruce Wayne stood in the ring, Clark Kent by his side, looking out at the staff of the DCW: wrestlers and costumers, announcers and writers, all sitting and looking up at them.

“So,” said Bruce without preamble, “you’re probably wondering what all that was in the ring with Luthor.”

“Just a little, yeah,” said John Stewart, his arms crossed and his feet propped up on the seat in front of him.

“I know there’ve been rumors through the years,” said Bruce, “about what my real name is. And I think I owe you the truth--for a lot of reasons, the first of which being we’ve worked together a long time, you’ve put your lives in my hands over and over, and you deserve to know who I really am.” He reached out and put his hands on the ropes, and Clark saw his fingers tighten as if he were seeking strength from the ring he loved so much. “So I’m going to tell you all the truth, and the truth is that my real name is...Bruce Wayne.”

Everyone blinked at him. Bruce’s small cadre of students nudged each other and giggled.

Billy Batson raised his hand sardonically. “So… you’ve actually got the same legal name as the orphan billionaire? You called us out here to tell us you’ve been wrestling under your wallet name this whole time? Okay, but...big deal, so what?” he said. “What’s it got to do with us Luthor and all that crazy shit that happened in the ring tonight?”

Bruce cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “I mean, I’m _the_ Bruce Wayne. The… the real one.”

Batson nodded at him, then kept nodding like a bobblehead doll. Then he stood up abruptly and yelled “What the-- Why would you even _wrestle_ if you always had that kind of cash?” 

Murmurs broke out, some of them sounding smug (“I always knew it!”), others disbelieving (“That’s the stupidest thing I ever…”), and a few angry (“Liar!”)

“So you’re just going to waltz in here, take over Lex’s company, and expect everyone to just roll over?” John Corbin, the champion, looked both angry and worried. “I suppose you’re going to put the strap right on Clark, huh? That’s what this has always been about, isn’t it?”

“I won’t be booking,” said Bruce, and the angry mutters turned puzzled. “I’m CEO now. But I’m handing over responsibility for booking decisions to someone else.” He pointed at Jack Napier. “Congratulations, Joker.”

“What? Who? Me?” Napier looked startled. “Why?”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth tilted slightly. “Look, four months ago I asked if you’d ever want to be booker and you laughed and said you’d jump at the chance. Well, this is the chance. Jump.”

“I didn’t mean--” Napier thought about it a moment, then shrugged. “You know what, screw it, you’re right. I accept.”

“You’ve got a good sense of timing and a great sense of story,” said Bruce. “And we’ve never been terribly close, so I can count on you to be even-handed and not push my friends at the expense of others.”

“Even though you’re the big almighty boss now? The Bat-God that we all must pay homage to?” Napier sneered.

“That’s the attitude I want to see,” said Bruce calmly. “You’ve never been cowed by me, and I don’t expect you to start now. Just...tell good stories.” 

He looked out at his new employees, their faces shining or sullen or philosophical, and took a breath. “Some of you have perhaps observed in the past that I can be a little… prickly. Difficult to work with.”

“A raging asshole,” Hal Jordan observed loudly from behind his hand, and everyone laughed.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Bruce said. “That’s why Clark is going to be my liaison with the talent. You got a problem, go to him. I think you know him well enough to trust that he’ll do his best to be fair. And on that note…” He gestured to Clark. “You want to give us a few words to wrap up before we move on to the next town and the next show, Clark?”

Clark had kind of expected this, and yet somehow as everyone looked at him he found all words had abandoned him for a moment. He cleared his throat and looked at them all: Diana’s calm confidence; Selina’s mischievous smile; Killer Croc’s hopefulness, incongruous on his pugilist’s face; Billy Batson’s sneer and Tim Drake’s barely-contained glee. This tiny secret circle. His world now. His universe. 

“I’m sure,” he said at last, “that Bruce thinks he’s telling the truth when he says you all trust me. I’m also sure that not all of you do. But I’m hoping that over time that will change. Because a lot of things are going to change around here.

“We’re going to start working more closely with other promotions. Instead of focusing on running them out of business, we’re going to try and work _with_ them more. Less like a cut-throat competition and more like… the major and minor leagues. We’re going to start a training facility where young wrestlers can go to be taught by some of the greatest we have, where they can get used to cutting promos and fitting into the DCW system. Wildcat, Fire, Ice, Guy Gardner--they’ve all agreed to be trainers there. No more sink or swim for starting wrestlers: we’ll have classes in locker room etiquette, in nutrition, in budgeting.”

“That’s all well and good for novices,” said Sinestro, “and I simply cannot express how thrilling it is to hear about how you’re training the generation that will replace us.” He kept going as Clark opened his mouth, “But what about us old workhorses here? Not to put too fine a point on it, _what’s in it for us?_ And don’t think you can give us a razzle-dazzle pep talk, show us something concrete.”

Clark held up a finger. “Health care,” he said, and the room went quiet. “Retirement funds. That razzle-dazzle new training center will have rehabilitation specialists, the best equipment, video setups for reviewing matches, the works. Available to everyone in the DCW. When you _do_ eventually hang up your boots, there’ll be the opportunity for jobs there, teaching the next generation. Oh, and one more thing--we’re open to discussing the possibility of unionization.” There was a beat while everyone stared at him, and he smiled, putting every ounce of sunshine and sincerity he could into it. “Concrete enough for you?”

“Uh. Maybe,” Sinestro said.

Clark Kent looked out at the faces that had shifted from hostile to dubious, and from hopeful to delighted. It was a beginning. It was a good beginning.

* * *

The wind off the Atlantic snatched at Bruce Wayne’s coat, causing it to flap around his ankles like Batman’s cape. The news that he was the real deal had gotten out, of course, as they had known it would. It had caused quite a stir for a bit. Some people still didn’t believe it, and that seemed to be fine with Bruce.

The Dark Knight was wrestling less lately. “I told Napier it was okay to cut back on my storylines, make me less of the focus. Time to put some of the new talent over,” Bruce had said when Clark asked him about it. “At least until I figure out what my character is going to be as the CEO.” He had smiled, a little wistfully. “And honestly, Clark, my neck could use the time off.”

He looked comfortable in his sharp suit and cashmere coat, watching as Lucius Fox spoke, dedicating the site of the new training center for the DCW, talking about the future, and hope, and opportunity. Alfred was on one side of him, Clark on the other. Flashbulbs were going off.

Lucius finished speaking and gestured to Bruce, smiling. Bruce stepped forward and picked up the ceremonial shovel, special-made for the groundbreaking, then turned to Clark. “Both of us,” he said. “Let’s begin it together.”

Clark swallowed hard and put his hand on top of Bruce’s, gripping the handle. The shaft was made of wood from the Kent barn, brought all the way from Kansas; the blade contained iron from the fence that surrounded Wayne Manor. Bruce hadn’t told any of the politicians and dignitaries there this fact, there was no need to. It was for the two of them alone. 

Their roots and their pasts, opening their future.

“Ready?” whispered Bruce as they lifted the shovel.

“Always,” said Clark.

Bruce’s hand tightened on his, and they broke new ground together.


	74. Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later, the state of the DCW.

_ As all art is said to aspire to the condition of music, all wrestling aspires to the condition of brotherly love. --Thomas Hackett _

_Excerpts from Lex Luthor’s blog:_

_Today marks the one-year anniversary of my leaving the DCW, and all I can say to you, my faithful readers, is--I told you so. I told you that without me Wayne would run my family’s promotion into the ground, and it’s obvious that’s what he’s in the process of doing. Some of you are waking up to the truth, but there are still a lot of sheep out there who don’t **get it,** who are just going to keep baaing along, saying everything is fine as he runs **my** promotion off a cliff._

_This latest hire is utterly typical--Wayne promoting his indie darlings instead of supporting the tried and true wrestlers who have proven their worth. This kid is **dangerous,** I tell you. His instincts in the ring are bad, and he cannot be trusted to keep his co-workers safe. That finishing move--did you watch his match last night? Drake might be legit hurt after that. He’s too green, too reckless, he’s a loose cannon._

_Or just as another example, **Joker** as heavyweight champ? Come on, we all know who runs the books there. He’s putting himself over at the expense of other people who need the rub more. It’s a travesty, it’s a shame, and it’s a waste. When the DCW goes bankrupt and I have to come in and pick up the pieces…_

“I can’t believe you’re reading that,” said Red Hood, his voice muffled behind the metallic scarlet mask. “I can’t believe you’re paying that jackass money to be a member and read his stupid opinions.”

Tim Drake shrugged, still scrolling.

“Jackass,” Red Hood muttered in the direction of a distant Lex Luthor.

Clark handed Red Hood a bottle of water. “He might be a jackass, and wrong about a lot of things, but when he’s right, he’s really right. I bet he’s back working in the DCW some day.” 

“No way,” boggled Red Hood.

“We would have said the same thing about you once, buddy,” said Tim. “And here you are.”

Red Hood peeled off his mask to reveal Jason Todd’s grinning, sardonic face. “Here I am, slumming it up with the pretend fighters again,” he said, taking a gulp of water.

“Shut _up_ ,” Tim said. “Luthor’s right, by the way. That finishing move is dangerous.”

“Not when it’s done right. And I always do it right.” Jason punched Tim on the shoulder. “As you knew when you agreed to take it, and it went fine. Looked like a million bucks. So quit whining.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Jason leaned against the wall, looking at all the people in costumes coming and going, listening to the chatter. “It’s good to be back. I missed this,” he said in a low voice after a while.

Tim didn’t look up from his phone, but he smiled. “It missed you too,” he said.

* * *

“Jimmy!”

Jimmy Olsen jumped a foot at the sound of Clark’s voice behind him. “Uh, yeah Clark?” he said. “I was just on my way to, uh, set up the cameras for that promo with Sinestro.”

“I’ll come help,” said Clark, falling into step beside him. 

“You know,” Clark said after a moment. “We never found out who it was that was leaking information to Perry White’s dirt sheet. Isn’t that a shame?”

“Sure is,” Jimmy agreed, tugging at his collar.

“Bruce thinks he’s pretty sure he knows who it is, though.”

“I knew this was coming,” muttered Jimmy. “Should I pack my stuff?”

Clark clapped Jimmy on the back. “Believe it or not, Jimmy, the dirt sheets are an important part of this industry. Checks and balances and all that. They can even let the people in charge know about problems they weren’t aware of. So no, I don’t think you need to pack your stuff.”

“Oh my God,” Jimmy said, dumbfounded. “Th-thank you, Clark. Thank you!”

“But Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure there’s just enough easily-debunked misinformation mixed in to keep people on their toes. Tell them who’s going to win the title and then be wrong now and then. Tell them someone’s injured just before they appear healthy on the show. I don’t care what it is, just… don’t be a hundred percent reliable.” Clark smiled. “Because if you get _too_ reliable, it won’t be me having this chat with you. It’ll be Bruce. Got it?”

Jimmy swallowed hard. “Got it.”

“Great! Now let’s go get set up for that promo.”

* * *

“...I know all of you are hoping to make it to the main roster someday, become a superstar.” Dick Grayson looked out at the gathered young women wrestlers at the Training Center with a smile. “Well, I’m here to tell you that if you want to keep up with the likes of Wonder Woman, Power Girl, Poison Ivy, Catwoman, Batgirl… you’re going to have to step your game to levels you’ve barely even dreamed of. The competition up there is like nothing you’ve ever experienced. It’s not enough to just be good at the moves--you’ve got the moves. You’re going to need something extra. You have to learn to tell a story, to express your character to us, to _connect_ with the audience. That connection--that’s the most important thing about wrestling. I know you all have it in you. You’re here to see if you can bring it out.”

“He’s a good teacher,” Bea whispered to Clark and Bruce, and Bruce nodded proudly.

“But I’m also living, breathing proof,” Dick was going on, “That the DCW isn’t the only game in town!” A few of the young wrestlers cast nervous glances at Clark and Bruce, but Dick just winked at the two of them. “It’s a new era, and if things don’t work out for you here, don’t assume that you’re some kind of failure. There’s always opportunities for talented people. It’s time to follow your dream, wherever it may go.”

He finished up his speech to applause and turned the floor back over to Tora, who smiled and thanked him. Dick wandered over and linked arms with Bruce. “How goes?” he asked as they left the classroom and wandered into the gym, where Alfred was plying hungry wrestlers with homemade protein bars.

“Ratings are up from last year--not skyrocketing, but climbing steadily,” said Bruce.

“Morale among the talent is...okay,” said Clark, grimacing. Just this morning he had had to tell a writer he was fired for using his influence to harass some of the women wrestlers.

“There are always problems,” said Bruce, “You’re just more aware of them since you’re the liaison. You take it too much to heart.”

“Personally, I hear a lot of good things,” Dick said, stopping to do a few chin-ups. “But I’m not going to tell you from whom.”

“Clark!” Guy Gardner’s voice broke into their conversation. “Clark, I need you to talk with this kid.”

The “kid” he had in tow was in his early twenties, with dark curly hair cut close to his scalp. “Simon, this is Clark. Clark, Simon Baz. Tell Simon he needs to lose his mask.”

“I’ve always worked masked,” Simon said angrily. “Look, with my background--”

“Simon’s parents are from Lebanon. They’re Muslim,” Guy explained. Clark already knew that, but it didn’t seem the best time to say so.

“--I’m just saying working masked was better than being given a turban and scimitar or whatever,” Simon snapped. “I’m not doing some stupid terrorist gimmick and that’s that.”

“Kid,” said Guy, “you’re not gonna get a stupid-ass terrorist gimmick! We want you in the Green Lantern Corps!”

“Hal Jordan’s in the Corps, and he wears a mask,” Simon said, looking at Clark.

Clark chewed on his lip for a moment. “Look, I’m not going to tell you I understand, Simon, because I’ve never had to worry about stuff like that. Being cast as a hayseed because I’m from Kansas isn’t the same thing at all.”

“Damn straight,” muttered Simon.

“But we want more people from more backgrounds in the DCW, and I think you’re more valuable--not just to the company, but to the world--as a character closer to your true self. We want you to have a character, not a gimmick. Especially, to borrow Guy’s words, a stupid-ass gimmick like that.”

Simon shook his head, but for the first time there was something like hope in his eyes. Hearing it from one of the bosses might have made the difference. Clark hoped it would.

“Think about it, that’s all we’re asking,” Clark said.

“See?” Bruce said as Simon and Guy walked away, deep in conversation. “I never would have done so well.”

“Oh, come on,” said Clark.

Bruce chuckled. “I would have told him that we’re hoping to break into the Middle Eastern market and he’s more valuable to us unmasked.”

“This is also true,” said Clark. “But you’re right, I’m not sure that cold financial calculation would have been the best approach.”

They looked out at the Training Center. Killer Croc was in the medical bay, having his knee looked at after an injury. Beyond him, in the gym, there were young wrestlers training hard: Jaime Reyes, Karen Beecher, Celine Patterson, Kenan Kong--and more that Clark hadn’t learned the names to yet. The promise of the future. The value of the past. All of it here.

“Look at our legacy,” Bruce said. “Not bad for a couple of scrappy indie wrestlers.”

“Not bad at all,” Clark said.

* * *

“You think you can beat me? Take my title? _Fool!”_ Joker’s shrill voice rang out above the crowd noise. “I’ll never _let_ you be champion!”

Clark could hear murmurs break out among the audience. Maybe a long time ago, people hadn’t known the power a booker had to decide who won and who lost; but in this day and age, it was generally known that Jack Napier chose who would hold that belt aloft at the end of the match. Joker’s words held a double edge to them, both as kayfabe villain and as backstage power broker, and they sank into the audience like a rock into a pool of acid. Shouts of outrage rang out, and Joker grinned madly as he kicked the exhausted Superman’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the mat.

Superman struggled to his knees, looking up at his tormentor, and Joker slapped him across the face twice, hard.

Clark’s ears rang with the impact--Napier hadn’t bothered to pull the blows, and while Clark appreciated that at an intellectual level, they _hurt_. Superman swung wildly at Joker, who danced out of the way easily and kicked him in the chest, knocking him onto his back. Joker went for the pin, and Clark heard voices shrieking in panic, begging him to kick out, Superman, kick out, kick out _please._ There was despair in them, and a growing resignation: _Superman was never going to win the heavyweight championship. The time was never right. He was going to be the greatest wrestler to never reach that pinnacle._

As the referee’s hand came down to strike to mat for the third time, Superman lurched out of the pin. Gasps of relief, cries of support. Clark looked at his opponent, and beneath Joker’s rictus grin there was a true smile of glee: _we’ve got them now._

“I’ll destroy everything you love!” Joker screamed in a frenzy of sadistic joy. “Power Girl, Supergirl, Superboy, all your girls and boys, this whole promotion--I’ll ruin it all!” He threw his arms out, cackling wildly.

“It’s time,” said the ref under his breath, touching his earpiece. “Take it home.”

Clark gathered his strength, focused his will, and when he came to his feet he was Superman, borne aloft by righteous fury and the desire to protect the innocent, to protect his family and friends and this very world itself. _“Never,_ Joker!” he cried, and launched a flurry of punches at Joker that left him reeling.

The both wavered on their feet for a long moment, staggering, exhausted. Then Joker slipped to his knees, his eyes glazed.

Clark climbed to the top turnbuckle, hearing the crowd going crazy as they realized--if he could pull off his finishing move--! He stood, looking out at them all, gathering their energy up into an incandescent beacon of hope. How they wanted him to win, to transcend evil, to prove that there was a place for good in this world. Gratitude and something close to awe touched him: that a flawed, finite human being like himself could, for one instant, stand for the dreams and hopes of these people. Could somehow become _something more,_ if only for a moment.

Joker staggered to his feet and it was the moment, it was time. Superman launched himself from the turnbuckle into the hurricanrana Bruce had, so long ago, given him the confidence to execute; wrapping his legs around Joker’s neck, he twisted his body so that Joker went flying across the ring to crumple against the ropes, unmoving.

Clark heard the crowd screaming as one as he grabbed Joker’s leg and dragged him into the middle of the ring, he heard Napier’s harsh breaths in his ear. “Congratulations,” Napier whispered under his breath as the referee’s fist came down once--twice--three times.

The bell rang, and Superman was the heavyweight champion at last.

Clark felt the breath leave him as if he’d been punched in the stomach at the sound that rose up from the audience: a great triumphant yell of joy that seemed to shake the ring beneath them. He staggered to his feet and the referee grabbed his hand, lifting it in the air. Tears blurred Clark’s vision, fracturing everything into prismatic fractals. He could hardly breathe.

Bruce was there. Bruce Wayne, CEO of the DCW, throwing his arms around Superman, grabbing his head, kissing his forehead. Conner was there, hugging Kara, laughing. The referee handed Superman the title, and Superman held it aloft, beaming, tears running down his face.

The next part happened so suddenly Clark hardly even realized what was going on--the audience, surging forward, started tumbling over the barricades, storming the ring. Security shot Bruce panicked looks, subsiding only when Bruce made a quick calming gesture. There was no way to stop them, after all.

And so people clambered into the ring, reaching to touch Superman, as if to be sure of his reality, to feel the true solid presence of him. A woman’s shaking hand wiped the tears from his face; a man threw his arms around him, clapping him on the back. Others embraced Kara or Conner or the other wrestlers--for the locker room had cleared out, all of the babyfaces coming to ring to both celebrate and make sure no one got hurt. It was chaos, it was beautiful, it was terrifying and breathtaking.

Clark reached out and took Bruce’s hand in the bedlam, holding on.

And then he gasped as he felt himself lifted aloft, hoisted onto the shoulders of two strangers, two random men from the audience who simply wanted to lift him higher, to let everyone see their champion. Bruce’s hand slipped from his, even as he tried to grasp it, and he was borne upward as if carried by the joy of the audience. He was flying, soaring. He raised the belt above his head and the cheers cascaded upward into rapture, pure and transcendent.

The eyes of thousands of people were on him and Clark knew, in that moment of his victory, that he would live forever in the hearts of everyone who witnessed him. That he could never die, not truly, not while they carried that image in their souls.

He was untouchable. He was immortal. He was, in that timeless second, eternal.

He looked down to where Bruce smiled up at him. There were tears on Bruce’s face as he held up his hand in salute: _My hero,_ he mouthed as the crowd lifted Clark away, tore them apart once again. But that distance didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all. Clark knew that they would always come back together somehow--as enemies, as friends, as lovers. No matter what.

The story would continue. 

The story would never end.


End file.
